REESE       IBRARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


^Accessions  No .  5~O  5  3  I    .      Class  No . 

TU — if  '-IT;  •  u— u — u-nr^P-^E^f^iif— tf— L — u — u — i? 


DREAMS   AND   DAYS 


DREAMS  AND  DAYS 


POEMS 


BY 


GEORGE  PARSONS   LATHROP 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1892 


Copyright,  1892,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 

A 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS. 


J>7 


To  ROSL 


CONTENTS 

i 

PAGE 

STRIKE  HANDS,  YOUNG  MEN  ! 5 

"OjAY!" 8 

THE  STAR  TO  ITS  LIGHT n 

"THE  SUNSHINE  OF  THINE  EYES" 14 

JESSAMINE 15 

THE  BOBOLINK 19 

SAILOR'S  SONG,  RETURNING 20 

FIRST  GLANCE 23 

BRIDE  BROOK 24 

MAY-ROSE 29 

THE  SINGING  WIRE 30 

THE  HEART  OF  A  SONG 33 

SOUTH-WIND 34 

THE  LOVER'S  YEAR .        -35 

NEW  WORLDS 36 

NIGHT  IN  NEW  YORK 37 

THE  SONG-SPARROW 4° 

I  LOVED  You,  ONCE  —    .                        43 


i  CONTENTS 

II 

PAGE 

THE  BRIDE  OF  WAR 47 

A  RUNE  OF  THE  RAIN 57 

BREAKERS 63 

BLACKMOUTH,  OF  COLORADO 69 

THE  CHILD-YEAR         ........  76 

CHRISTENING 79 

THANKSGIVING  TURKEY 81 

BEFORE  THE  SNOW         ' 84 

III 

YOUTH  TO  THE  POET 89 

THE  SWORD  DHAM 91 

"  AT  THE  GOLDEN  GATE  " 94 

CHARITY 97 

HELEN  AT  THE  LOOM 98 

THE  CASKET  OF  OPALS 103 

LOVE  THAT  LIVES IJ6 

IV 

BLUEBIRD'S  GREETING 121 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  VOID 124 

"  O  WHOLESOME  DEATH  " 125 

INCANTATION 126 

FAMINE  AND  HARVEST 129 

THE  CHILD'S  WISH  GRANTED is1 

THE  FLOWN  SOUL 132 

SUNSET  AND  SHORE i34 

THE  PHCEBE-BIRD *35 

A  STRONG  CITY *37 

THREE  DOVES I41 


CONTENTS 
V 

PAGE 

ARISE,  AMERICAN  ! J45 

THE  NAME  OF  WASHINGTON            ...                •  I48 

GRANT'S  DIRGE    .                Z5° 

BATTLE  DAYS JS9 

KEENAN'S  CHARGE l63 

MARTHY  VIRGINIA'S  HAND l68 

GETTYSBURG  :  A  BATTLE  ODE    ...  .172 

NOTES                l87 


STRIKE    HANDS,  YOUNG   MEN! 

Strike  hands,  young  men ! 
We  know  not  when 
Death  or  disaster  comes, 
Mightier  than  battle-drums 
To  summon  us  away. 
Death  bids  us  say  farewell 
To  all  we  love,  nor  stay 
For  tears;  —  and  who  can  tell 
How  soon  misfortune's  hand 
May  smite  us  where  we  stand, 
Dragging  us  down,  aloof, 
Under  the  swift  world's  hoof? 

Strike  hands  for  faith,  and  power 
To  gladden  the  passing  hour; 
To  wield  the  sword,  or  raise  a  song ;  — 
To  press  the  grape;  or  crush  out  wrong. 
And  strengthen  right. 


STRIKE  HANDS,    YOUNG  MEN! 

Give  me  the  man  of  sturdy  palm 

And  vigorous  brain ; 

Hearty,  companionable,  sane, 

'Mid  all  commotions  calm, 

Yet  filled  with  quick,  enthusiastic  fire;  — 

Give  me  the  man 

Whose  impulses  aspire, 

And  all  his  features  seem  to  say,  "I  can!" 

Strike  hands,  young  men! 
Tis  yours  to  help  rebuild  the  State, 
And  keep  the  Nation  great. 
With  act  and  speech  and  pen 
'T  is  yours  to  spread 
The  morning-red 
That  ushers  in  a  grander  day: 
To  scatter  prejudice  that  blinds, 
And  hail  fresh  thoughts  in  noble  minds; 
To  overthrow  bland  tyrannies 
That  cheat  the  people,  and  with  slow  disease 
Change  the  Republic  to  a  mockery. 
Your  words  can  teach  that  liberty 
Means  more  than  just  to  cry  "  We  're  free  " 
While  bending  to  some  new-found  yoke. 
So  shall  each  unjust  bond  be  broke, 


STRIKE   HANDS,    YOUNG  MEN!  7 

Each  toiler  gain  his  meet  reward, 
And  life  sound  forth  a  truer  chord. 

Ah,  if  we  so  have  striven, 
And  mutually  the  grasp  have  given 
Of  brotherhood, 

To  work  each  other  and  the  whole  race  good; 
What  matter  if  the  dream 
Come  only  partly  true, 
And  all  the  things  accomplished  seem 
Feeble  and  few? 

At  least,  when  summer's  flame  burns  low 
And  on  our  heads  the  drifting  snow 
Settles  and  stays, 

We  shall  rejoice  that  in  our  earlier  days 
We  boldly  then 
Struck  hands,  young  men ! 


"O   JAY!" 

0  jay— 
Blue-jay !  — 

What  are  you  trying  to  say? 

1  remember,  in  the  spring 
You  pretended  you  could  sing; 
But  your  voice  is  now  still  queerer, 
And  as  yet  you  've  come  no  nearer 
To  a  song. 

In  fact,  to  sum  the  matter, 
I  never  heard  a  flatter 
Failure  than  your  doleful  clatter. 
Don't  you  think  it  's  wrong  ? 
It  was  sweet  to  hear  your  note, 
I  '11  not  deny, 

When  April  set  pale  clouds  afloat 
O'er  the  blue  tides  of  sky, 
And  'mid  the  wind's  triumphant  drums 
You,  in  your  white  and  azure  coat, 
A  herald  proud,  came  forth  to  cry, 
"  The  royal  summer  comes !  " 


"6>  JAY/" 

But  now  that  autumn  's  here, 
And  the  leaves  curl  up  in  sheer 
Disgust, 

And  the  cold  rains  fringe  the  pine, 
You  really  must 
Stop  that  supercilious  whine — 
Or  you  '11  be  shot,  by  some  mephitic 
Angry  critic. 

You  don't  fulfill  your  early  promise : 
You  're  not  the  smartest 
Kind  of  artist, 

Any  more  than  poor  Blind  Tom  is. 
Yet  somehow,  still, 

There  's  meaning  in  your  screaming  bill. 
What  are  you  trying  to  say  ? 

Sometimes  your  piping  is  delicious, 
And  then  again  it 's  simply  vicious ; 
Though  on  the  whole  the  varying  jangle 
Weaves  round  me  an  entrancing  tangle 
Of  memories  grave  or  joyous: 
Things  to  weep  or  laugh  at; 
Love  that  lived  at  a  hint,  or 
Days  so  sweet,  they  'd  cloy  us; 


io  "O  JAY/" 

Nights  I  have  spent  with  friends ;  — 

Glistening  groves  of  winter, 

And  the  sound  of  vanished  feet 

That  walked  by  the  ripening  wheat; 

With  other  things.  .  .  .  Not  the  half  that 

Your  cry  familiar  blends 

Can  I  name,  for  it  is  mostly 

Very  ghostly;  — 

Such  mixed-up  things  your  voice  recalls, 

With  its  peculiar  quirks  and  falls. 

Possibly,  then,  your  meaning,  plain, 
Is  that  your  harsh  and  broken  strain 
Tallies  best  with  a  world  of  pain. 

Well,  I  '11  admit 

There  's  merit  in  a  voice  that 's  truthful : 
Yours  is  not  honey-sweet  nor  youthful, 
But  querulously  fit. 
And  if  we  cannot  sing,  we  '11  say 
Something  to  the  purpose,  jay ! 


THE   STAR   TO    ITS   LIGHT 

"  Go,"  said  the  star  to  its  light : 
"Follow  your  fathomless  flight! 

Into  the  dreams  of  space 

Carry  the  joy  of  my  face. 

Go,"  said  the  star  to  its  light: 

"  Tell  me  the  tale  of  your  flight." 

As  the  mandate  rang 

The  heavens  through, 
Quick  the  ray  sprang: 

Unheard  it  flew, 
Sped  by  the  touch  of  an  unseen  spur. 

It  crumbled  the  dusk  of  the  deep 

That  folds  the  worlds  in  sleep, 
And  shot  through   night  with  noiseless  stir. 

Then  came  the  day ; 
And  all  that  swift  array 
Of  diamond-sparkles  died. 
And  lo !  the  far  star  cried  : 
•"  My  light  has  lost  its  way ! " 


12  THE    STAR    TO   ITS  LIGHT 

Ages  on  ages  passed: 
The  light  returned,  at  last. 

"  What  have  you  seen, 

What  have  you  heard  — 

0  ray  serene, 

O  flame- winged  bird 
\  loosed  on  endless  air? 
Why  do  you  look  so  faint  and  white  ?  "  — 
Said  the  star  to  its  light. 

"  O  star,"  said  the  tremulous  ray, 
"  Grief  and  struggle  I  found. 

Horror  impeded  my  way. 

Many  a  star  and  sun 

1  passed  and  touched,  on  my  round. 
Many  a  life    undone 

I  lit  with  a  tender  gleam : 
I  shone  in  the  lover's  eyes, 
And  soothed  the  maiden's  dream. 
But  alas  for  the  stifling  mist  of  lies ! 
Alas,  for  the  wrath  of  the  battle-field 
Where  my  glance  was  mixed  with  blood! 
And  woe  for  the  hearts  by  hate  congealed, 
And  the  crime  that  rolls  like  a  flood! 


THE  STAR    TO  ITS  LIGHT  13 

Too  vast  is  the  world  for  me; 
Too  vast  for  the  sparkling  dew 
Of  a  force  like  yours  to  renew. 
Hopeless  the  world's  immensity ! 
The  suns  go  on  without  end: 
The  universe  holds  no  friend: 
And  so  I  come  back  to  you." 

"Go,"  said  the  star  to  its  light: 

"You  have  not  told  me  aright. 
This  you  have  taught:   I  am  one 
In  a  million  of  million  others  — 
Stars,  or  planets,  or  men;  — 
And  all  of  these  are  my  brothers. 
Carry  that  message,  and  then 
My  guerdon  of  praise  you  have  won ! 
Say  that  I  serve  in  my  place: 
Say  I  will  hide  my  own  face 
Ere  the  sorrows  of  others  I  shun. 
So,  then,  my  trust  you  '11   requite. 
Go!  "  —  said  the  star  to  its  light. 


"THE    SUNSHINE    OF   THINE    EYES" 

The  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

(O  still,  celestial  beam ! ) 
Whatever  it  touches  it  fills 

With  the  life  of  its  lambent  gleam. 

The  sunshine  of  thine  eyes, 

0  let  it  fall  on  me  ! 

Though  I  be  but  a  mote  of  the  air, 

1  could  turn  to  gold  for  thee ! 


JESSAMINE 

Here  stands  the   great  tree  still,  with  broad  bent 

head; 

Its  wide  arms  grown  aweary,  yet  outspread 
With  their  old  blessing.    But  wan  memory  weaves 
Strange    garlands,   now,   amongst    the    darkening 

leaves. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Beneath  these  glimmering  arches  Jessamine 
Walked  with  her  lover  long  ago;  and  in 
The  leaf-dimmed  light  he  questioned,  and  she  spoke; 
Then  on  them  both,  supreme,  love's  radiance  broke. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Sweet  Jessamine  we  called  her;  for  she  shone 
Like  blossoms  that  in  sun  and  shade  have  grown, 
Gathering  from  each  alike  a  perfect  white, 
Whose  rich  bloom  breaks  opaque  through  darkest 

night. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

15 


16  JESSAMINE 

For  this  her  sweetness  Walt,  her  lover,  sought 
To    win   her;    wooed    her    here,   his   heart    o'er- 

fraught 

With  fragrance  of  her  being ;  and  gained  his  plea. 

So  "  We  will  wed,"  they  said,  "  beneath  this  tree." 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Yet  dreams  of  conquering  greater  prize  for  her 
Roused  his  wild  spirit  with  a  glittering  spur. 
Eager  for  wealth,  far,  far  from  home  he  sailed; 
And  life  paused; — while  she  watched  joy  vanish, 
veiled. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Ah,  better  at  the  elm-tree's  sunbrowned  feet 
If  he  had  been  content  to  let  life  fleet 
Its  wonted  way! — lord  of  his  little  farm, 
In  zest  of  joys  or  cares  unmixed  with  harm. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

For,  as  against  a  snarling  sea  one  steers, 
He  battled  vainly  with  the  surging  years; 
While  ever  Jessamine  must  watch  and  pine, 
Her  vision  bounded  by  the  bleak  sea-line. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 


JESSAMINE  17 

Then  silence  fell;  and  all  the  neighbors  said 
That  Walt  had  married,  faithless,  or  was  dead : 
Unmoved  in  constancy,  her  tryst  she  kept, 
Each  night  beneath  the  tree,  ere  sorrow  slept. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

So,  circling  years  went  by,  till  in  her  face 
Slow  melancholy  wrought  a  mingled  grace, 
Of  early  joy  with  suffering's  hard  alloy — 
Refined  and  rare,  no  doom  could  e'er  destroy. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 


Sometimes  at  twilight,  when  sweet  Jessamine 
Slow-footed,  weary-eyed,  passed  by  to  win 
The  elm,  we  smiled  for  pity  of  her,  and  mused 
On  love  that  so  could  live,  with  love  refused. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

And  none  could  hope  for  her.     But  she  had  grown 
Too  high  in  love,  for  hope.     She  bloomed  alone, 
Aloft  in  proud  devotion  ;  and  secure 
Against  despair  ;  so  sweet  her  faith,  so  sure. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Her  wandering  lover  knew  not  well  her  soul. 
Discouraged,  on  disaster's  changing  shoal 


1 8  JESSAMINE 

Stranding,  he  waited;  starved  on  selfish  pride, 
Long  years ;  nor  would  obey  love's  homeward  tide. 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

But,  bitterly  repenting  of  his  sin, 
Deeper  at  last  he  learned  to  look  within 
Sweet  Jessamine's  true  heart — when  the  past,  dead, 
Mocked  him  with  wasted  years  forever  fled. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Late,  late,  oh  late,  beneath  the  tree  stood  two; 
In  trembling  joy,  and  wondering  "  Is  it  true  ?  "  — 
Two  that  were  each  like  some  strange,  misty  wraith : 
Yet  each  on  each  gazed  with  a  living  faith. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Even  to  the  tree-top  sang  the  wedding-bell : 
Even  to  the  tree-top  tolled  the  passing  knell. 
Beneath  it  Walt  and  Jessamine  were  wed, 
Beneath  it  many  a  year  has  she  lain  dead. 

And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 

Here  stands  the  great  tree,  still.     But  age  has  crept 
Through  every  coil,  while  Walt  each  night  has  kept 
The  tryst  alone.    Hark!  with  what  windy  might 
The  boughs  chant  o'er  her  grave  their  burial-rite ! 
And  the  moon  hangs  low  in  the  elm. 


THE  BOBOLINK 

How  sweetly  sang  the  bobolink. 

When  thou,  my  love,  wast  nigh! 
His  liquid  music  from  the  brink 
Of  some  cloud-fountain  seemed  to  sink, 

Far  in  the  blue-domed  sky. 

How  sadly  sings  the  bobolink! 

No  more  my  love  is  nigh: 
Yet  rise,  my  spirit,  rise,  and  drink 
Once  more  from  that  cloud-fountain's  brink,- 

Once  more  before  I  die! 


\ 


SAILOR'S   SONG,  RETURNING 

The  sea  goes  up;  the  sky  comes  down. 
Oh,  can  you  spy  the  ancient  town, — 
The  granite  hills  so  green  and  gray, 
That  rib  the  land  behind  the  bay? 

O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings! 

Fair  winds,  boys:  send  her  home! 
O  ye  ho! 

Three  years?     Is  it  so  long  that  we 
Have  lived  upon  the  lonely  sea? 
Oh,  often  I  thought  we  'd  see  the  town, 
When  the  sea  went  up,  and  the  sky  came  down. 
O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings! 

Even  the  winter  winds  would  rouse 
A  memory  of  my  father's  house; 
For  round  his  windows  and  his  door 
They  made  the  same  deep,  mouthless  roar. 
O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings! 


SAILOR'S  SONG,  RETURNING  21 

And  when  the  summer's  breezes  beat, 
Methought  I  saw  the  sunny  street 
Where  stood  my  Kate.     Beneath  her  hand 
She    gazed  far  out,  far  out  from  land. 
O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings! 

Farthest  away,  I  oftenest  dreamed 
That  I  was  with  her.     Then  it  seemed 
A  single  stride  the  ocean  wide 
Had  bridged,  and  brought  me  to  her  side. 
O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings ! 

But  though  so  near  we  're  drawing,  now, 
T  is  farther  off — I  know  not  how. 
We  sail  and  sail :  we  see  no  home. 
Would  that  we  into  port  were  come ! 
O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings ! 

At  night,  the  same  stars  o'er  the  mast: 
The  mast  sways  round  —  however  fast 
We  fly  —  still  sways  and  swings  around 
One  scanty  circle's  starry  bound. 

O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings! 

Ah,  many  a  month  those  stars  have  shone, 
And  many  a  golden  morn  has  flown, 


SAILOR'S  SONG,   RETURNING 

Since  that  so  solemn,  happy  morn, 
When,  I  away,  my  babe  was  born. 

O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings! 

And,  though  so  near  we  're  drawing,  now, 
'T  is  farther  off — I  know  not  how:  — 
I  would  not  aught  amiss  had  come 
To  babe  or  mother  there,  at  home! 
O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings! 

'T  is  but  a  seeming :  swiftly  rush 
The  seas,  beneath.     I  hear  the  crush 
Of  foamy  ridges  'gainst  the  prow. 
Longing  outspeeds  the  breeze,  I  know. 
O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings! 

Patience,  my  mates!     Though  not  this  eve 
We  cast  our  anchor,  yet  believe, 
If  but  the  wind  holds,  short  the  run : 
We  '11  sail  in  with  to-morrow's  sun. 

O  ye  ho,  boys.     Spread  her  wings! 

Fair  winds,  boys:  send  her  home! 
O  ye  ho! 


FIRST   GLANCE 

A  budding  mouth  and  warm  blue  eyes; 

A  laughing  face;  and  laughing  hair, — 
So  ruddy  was  its  rise 
From  off  that  forehead  fair; 

Frank  fervor  in  whate'er  she  said, 
And  a  shy  grace  when  she  was  still; 

A  bright,  elastic  tread; 

Enthusiastic  will; 

These  wrought  the  magic  of  a  maid 
As  sweet  and  sad  as  the  sun  in  spring;- 

Joyous,  yet  half-afraid 

Her  joyousness  to  sing. 


BRIDE   BROOK 

Wide  as  the  sky  Time  spreads  his  hand, 
And  blindly  over  us  there  blows 

A  swarm  of  years  that  fill  the  land, 
Then  fade,  and  are  as  fallen  snows. 

Behold,  the  flakes  rush  thick  and  fast; 

Or  are  they  years,  that  come  between, — 
When,  peering  back  into  the  past, 

I  search  the  legendary  scene? 

Nay.  Marshaled  down  the  open  coast, 
Fearless  of  that  low  rampart's  frown, 

The  winter's  white-winged,  footless  host 
Beleaguers  ancient  Saybrook  town. 

And  when  the  settlers  wake  they  stare 
On  woods  half-buried,  white  and  green, 

A  smothered  world,  an  empty  air: 

Never  had  such  deep  drifts  been  seen! 


BRIDE  BROOK  25 

But  "Snow  lies  light  upon  my  heart! 

An  thou,"  said  merry  Jonathan  Rudd, 
"Wilt  wed  me,  winter  shall  depart, 

And  love  like  spring  for  us  shall  bud." 

"Nay,  how,"  said  Mary,  "may  that  be? 

No  minister  nor  magistrate 
Is  here,  to  join  us  solemnly; 

And  snow-banks  bar  us,  every  gate." 

"  Winthrop  at  Pequot  Harbor  lies," 

He  laughed.     And  with  the  morrow's  sun 
He  faced  the  deputy's  dark  eyes : 
"  How  soon,  sir,  may  the  rite  be  done  ?  " 

"  At  Saybrook  ?    There  the  power  's  not  mine," 

Said  he.     "  But  at  the  brook  we  '11  meet, 
That  ripples  down  the  boundary  line; 

There  you  may  wed,  and  Heaven  shall  see  't." 

Forth  went,  next  day,  the  bridal   train 
Through  vistas  dreamy  with  gray  light. 

The  waiting  woods,  the  open  plain, 
Arrayed  in  consecrated  white, 


26  BRIDE  BROOK 

Received  and  ushered  them  along. 

The  very  beasts  before  them  fled, 
Charmed  by  the  spell  of  inward  song 

These  lovers'  hearts  around  them  spread. 

Four  men  with  netted  foot-gear  shod 
Bore  the  maid's  carrying-chair  aloft; 

She  swayed  above,  as  roses  nod 

On  the  lithe  stem  their  bloom-weight  soft. 

At  last  beside  the  brook  they  stood, 
With  Winthrop  and  his  followers; 

The  maid  in  flake-embroidered  hood, 
The  magistrate  well  cloaked  in  furs, 

That,  parting,  showed  a  glimpse  beneath 
Of  ample,  throat-encircling  ruff 

As  white  as  some  wind-gathered  wreath 
Of  snow  quilled  into  plait  and  puff. 

A  few  grave  words,  a  question  asked; 

Eyelids  that  with  the  answer  fell 
Like  falling  petals;— form  that  tasked 

Brief  time;  —  and  so  was  wrought  the  spell ! 


BRIDE  BKOOK  27 

Then  "  Brooklet,"  Winthrop  smiled  and  said, 
"  Frost's  finger  on  thy  lip  makes  dumb 
The  voice   wherewith  thou  shouldst  have  sped 
These  lovers  on  their  way.     But,  come, 

"  Henceforth   forever  be  thou  known 

By  memory   of  this  day's  fair  bride : 
So  shall  thy  slender  music's  moan 
Sweeter  into  the  ocean  glide ! " 

Then  laughed  they  all,  and  sudden  beams 
Of  sunshine   quivered  through  the  sky. 

Below  the  ice,  the  unheard  stream's 
Clear  heart  thrilled  on  in  ecstasy; 

And  lo,  a  visionary  blush 

Stole  warmly  o'er  the  voiceless  wild; 
And  in  her  rapt  and  wintry  hush 

The  lonely  face  of  Nature  smiled. 

Ah,  Time,  what  wilt  thou  ?     Vanished  quite 

Is  all  that  tender  vision  now; 
And,  like  lost  snow-flakes  in  the  night, 

Mute  are  the  lovers  as  their  vow. 


28  BRIDE  BROOK 

And  O  thou  little,  careless  brook, 
Hast  thou  thy  tender  trust  forgot? 

Her  modest  memory  forsook, 

Whose  name,  known  once,  thou  utterest  not  ? 

Spring  wakes  the  rill's  blithe  minstrelsy; 

In  willow  bough  or  alder  bush 
Birds  sing,  o'er  golden  filigree 

Of  pebbles  'neath  the  flood's  clear  gush ; 

But  none  can  tell  us  of  that  name 

More  than  the  "  Mary."     Men  still  say 
"Bride  Brook"  in  honor  of  her  fame; 
But  all  the  rest  has  passed  away. 


MAY-ROSE 
[FOR  A  BIRTHDAY  :  MAY  20] 

On  this  day  to  life  she  came — 
May-Rose,  my  May-Rose! 
With  scented  breeze,  with  flowered  flame, 
She  touched  the  earth  and  took  her  name 
Of  May,  Rose. 

Here,  to-day,  she  grows  and  flowers — 

May-Rose,  my  May-Rose. 
All  my  life  with  light  she  dowers, 
And  colors  all  the  coming  hours 
With  May,  Rose! 


THE  SINGING  WIRE 

Ethereal,  faint  that  music  rang, 
As,  with  the  bosom  of  the  breeze, 
It  rose  and  fell  and  murmuring  sang 
harmonies! 


I  turned;  again  the  mournful  chords, 
In  random  rhythm  lightly  flung 

From  off  the  wire,  came  shaped  in  words; 
And  thus  meseemed,  they  sung: 

"  I,  messenger  of  many  fates, 

Strung  to  the  tones  of  woe  or  weal, 
Fine  nerve  that  thrills  and  palpitates 
With  all  men  know  or  feel,  — 

"Is  it  so  strange  that  I  should  wail  ? 
Leave  me  my  tearless,  sad  refrain, 
When  in  the  pine  -top  wakes  the  gale 
That  breathes  of  coming  rain. 


THE  SINGING    WIRE  31 

"There  is  a  spirit  in  the  post; 

It,  too,  was  once  a  murmuring  tree; 
Its  withered,  sad,  imprisoned  ghost 
Echoes  my  melody. 

"Come  close,  and  lay  your  listening  ear 
Against  the  bare  and  branchless  wood. 
Can  you  not  hear  it  crooning  clear, 
As  though  it  understood  ?  " 

I  listened  to  the  branchless  pole 
That  held  aloft  the  singing  wire; 
I  heard  its  muffled  music  roll, 
And  stirred  with  sweet  desire: 

"  O  wire  more  soft  than  seasoned  lute, 
Hast  thou  no  sunlit  word  for  me? 
Though  long  to  me  so  coyly  mute, 
Her  heart  may  speak  through  thee ! " 

I  listened,  but  it  was  in  vain. 

At  first,  the  wind's  old  wayward  will 
Drew  forth  the  tearless,  sad  refrain. 
That  ceased;  and  all  was  still. 


32  THE  SINGING    WIRE 

But  suddenly  some  kindling  shock 

Struck  flashing  through  the  wire:  a  bird, 
Poised  on  it,  screamed  and  flew;  the  flock 
Rose  with  him;  wheeled  and  whirred. 

Then  to  my  soul  there  came  this  sense : 
"  Her  heart  has  answered  unto  thine ; 

She  comes,  to-night.    Go,  speed  thee  hence: 
"Meet  her;  no  more  repine!" 

Perhaps  the  fancy  was  far-fetched; 
And  yet,  perhaps,  it  hinted  true. 

Ere  moonrise,  Love,  a  hand  was  stretched 
In  mine,  that  gave  me  —  you  ! 

And  so  more  dear  to  me  has  grown 
Than  rarest  tones  swept  from  the  lyre, 
The  minor  movement  of  that  moan 
In  yonder  singing  wire. 

Nor  care  I  for  the  will  of  states, 

Or  aught  beside,  that  smites  that  string, 

Since  then  so  close  it  knit  our  fates, 

What  time  the  bird  took  wing! 


THE    HEART   OF  A   SONG 

Dear  love,  let  this  my  song  fly  to  you: 
Perchance  forget  it  came  from  me. 

It  shall  not  vex  you,  shall  not  woo  you ; 
But  in  your  breast  lie  quietly. 

Only  beware,  when  once  it  tarries 
I  cannot  coax  it  from  you,  then. 

This  little  song  my  whole  heart  carries, 
And  ne'er  will  bear  it  back  again. 

For  if  its  silent  passion  grieve  you, 

My  heart  would  then  too  heavy  grow; 

And  it  can  never,  never  leave  you, 
If  joy  of  yours  must  with  it  go ! 


33 


SOUTH-WIND 

Soft-throated  South,  breathing  of  summer's  ease 
(Sweet  breath,  whereof  the  violet's  life  is  made !) 
Through  lips  moist-warm,  as  thou  hadst  lately 

stayed 

'Mong  rosebuds,  wooing  to  the  cheeks  of  these 
Loth   blushes   faint  and  maidenly: — rich  breeze, 
Still  doth  thy  honeyed  blowing  bring  a  shade 
Of  sad  foreboding.     In  thy  hand  is  laid 
The  power  to  build  or  blight  the  fruit  of  trees, 
The  deep,  cool  grass,  and  field  of  thick-combed 
grain. 

Even  so  my  Love  may  bring  me  joy  or  woe, 
Both  measureless,  but  either  counted  gain 

Since  given  by  her.     For  pain  and  pleasure  flow 
Like  tides  upon  us  of  the  self-same  sea. 
Tears  are  the  gems  of  joy  and  misery. 


34 


THE    LOVER'S  YEAR 

Thou  art  my  morning,  twilight,  noon,  and  eve, 
My  summer  and  my  winter,  spring  and  fall; 
For  Nature  left  on  thee  a  touch  of  all 

The  moods  that  come  to  gladden  or  to  grieve 
The  heart  of  Time,  with  purpose  to  relieve 
From  lagging  sameness.     So  do   these  forestall 
In  thee  such  o'erheaped  sweetnesses  as  pall 

Too  swiftly,  and  the  taster  tasteless  leave. 

Scenes  that  I  love  to  me  always  remain 
Beautiful,  whether  under  summer  sun 

Beheld,  or,  storm-dark,  stricken  across  with  rain. 
So,  through  all  humors,  thou  'rt  the  same  sweet 
one : 

Doubt  not  I  love  thee  well  in  each,  who  see 

Thy  constant  change  is  changeful  constancy. 


NEW   WORLDS 

With  my  beloved  I  lingered  late  one  night. 

At  last  the  hour  when  I  must  leave  her  came: 

But,  as  I  turned,  a  fear  I  could  not  name 
Possessed  me  that  the  long  sweet  evening  might 
Prelude  some  sudden  storm,  whereby  delight 

Should  perish.    What  if  death,  ere  dawn,  should 
claim 

One  of  us  ?    What,  though  living,  not  the  same 
Each  should  appear  to  each  in  morning-light  ? 

Changed  did  I  find  her,  truly,  the  next  day: 
Ne'er  could  I  see  her  as  of  old  again. 

That    strange    mood    seemed    to    draw    a    cloud 

away, 
And  let  her  beauty  pour  through  every  vein 

Sunlight  and  life,  part  of  me.     Thus  the  lover 

With  each  new  morn  a  new  world  may  discover. 


NIGHT   IN    NEW   YORK 

Haunted  by  unknown  feet  — 
Ways  of  the  midnight  hour! 
Strangely  you  murmur  below  me, 
Strange  is  your  half- silent  power. 
Places  of  life  and  of  death, 
Numbered  and  named  as  streets, 
What,  through  your  channels  of  stone, 
Is  the  tide  that  unweariedly  beats? 
A  whisper,  a  sigh-laden  breath, 
Is  all  that  I  hear  of  its  flowing. 
Footsteps  of  stranger  and  foe  — 
Footsteps  of  friends,  could  we  meet  — 
Alike  to  me  in  my  sorrow; 
Alike  to  a  life  left  alone. 
Yet  swift  as  my  heart  they  throb, 
They  fall  thick  as  tears  on  the  stone: 
My  spirit  perchance  may  borrow 
New  strength  from  their  eager  tone. 

37 


38  NIGHT  IN  NEW   YORK 

Still  ever  that  slip  and  slide 
Of  the  feet  that  shuffle  or  glide, 
And  linger  or  haste  through  the  populous  waste 
Of  the  shadowy,  dim-lit  square! 
And  I  know  not,  from  the  sound, 
As  I  sit  and  ponder  within, 
The  goal  to  which  those  steps  are  bound, — 
On  hest  of  mercy,  or  hest  of  sin, 
Or  joy's  short-measured  round; 
Yet  a  meaning  deep  they  bear 
In  their  vaguely  muffled  din. 

Roar  of  the  multitude, 
Chafe  of  the  million-crowd, 
To  this  you  are  all  subdued 
In  the  murmurous,  sad  night-air ! 
Yet  whether  you  thunder  aloud, 
Or  hush  your  tone  to  a  prayer, 
You  chant  amain  through  the  modern  maze 
The  only  epic  of  our  days. 

Still  as  death  are  the  places  of  life ; 
The  city  seems  crumbled  and  gone, 
Sunk  'mid  invisible  deeps  — 
The  city  so  lately  rife 
With  the  stir  of  brain  and  brawn. 


NIGHT  IN  NEW   YORK  39 

Haply  it  only  sleeps ; 

But  what  if  indeed  it  were  dead, 

And  another  earth  should  arise 

To  greet  the  gray  of  the  dawn? 

Faint  then  our  epic  would  wail 

To  those  who  should  come  in  our  stead. 

But  what  if  that  earth  were  ours? 

What  if,  with  holier  eyes, 

We  should  meet  the  new  hope,  and  not  fail? 

Weary,  the  night  grows  pale: 
With  a  blush  as  of  opening  flowers 
Dimly  the  east  shines  red. 
Can  it  be  that  the  morn  shall  fulfil 
My  dream,  and  refashion  our  clay 
As  the  poet  may  fashion  his  rhyme? 
Hark  to  that  mingled  scream 
Rising  from  workshop  and  mill  — 
Hailing  some  marvelous  sight; 
Mighty  breath   of  the  hours, 
Poured  through  the  trumpets  of  steam; 
Awful  tornado  of  time, 
Blowing  us  whither  it  will! 

God  has  breathed  in  the  nostrils  of  night, 
And  behold,  it  is  day ! 


THE   SONG-SPARROW 

Glimmers  gray  the  leafless  thicket 

Close  beside  my  garden  gate, 
Where,  so  light,  from  post  to  picket 
Hops  the  sparrow,  blithe,  sedate; 
Who,  with  meekly  folded  wing, 
Comes  to  sun  himself  and  sing. 

It  was  there,  perhaps,  last  year, 
That  his  little  house  he  built; 
For  he  seems  to  perk  and  peer, 
And  to  twitter,  too,  and  tilt 
The  bare  branches  in  between, 
With  a  fond,  familiar  mien. 

Once,  I  know,  there  was  a  nest, 

Held  there  by  the  sideward  thrust 
Of  those  twigs  that  touch  his  breast; 

Though  't  is  gone  now.     Some  rude  gust 
Caught  it,  over-full  of  snow, — 
Bent  the  bush, —  and  stole  it  so. 


THE   SONG-SPARROW  41 

Thus  our  highest  holds  are  lost, 
In   the  ruthless  winter's  wind, 
When,  with  swift-dismantling  frost, 

The  green  woods  we  dwelt  in,  thinn'd 
Of  their  leafage,  grow  too  cold 
For  frail  hopes  of  summer's  mold. 

But  if  we,  with  spring- days  mellow, 

Wake  to  woeful  wrecks  of  change, 
And  the  sparrow's  ritornello 

Scaling  still  its  old  sweet  range; 
Can  we  do  a  better  thing 
Than,  with  him,  still  build  and  sing? 

Oh,  my  sparrow,  thou  dost  breed 

Thought  in  me  beyond  all  telling; 
Shootest  through  me  sunlight,  seed, 
And  fruitful  blessing,  with  that  welling 
Ripple  of  ecstatic  rest 
Gurgling  ever  from  thy  breast ! 

And  thy  breezy  carol  spurs 

Vital  motion  in  my  blood, 
Such  as  in  the  sap-wood  stirs, 

Swells  and  shapes  the  pointed  bud 


42  THE   SONG-SPARROW 

Of  the  lilac;  and  besets 

The  hollow  thick  with  violets. 

Yet  I  know  not  any  charm 

That  can  make  the  fleeting  time 
Of  thy  sylvan,  faint  alarm 
Suit  itself  to  human  rhyme : 

And  my  yearning  rhythmic  word 
Does  thee  grievous  wrong,  blithe  bird. 

So,  however  thou  hast  wrought 

This  wild  joy  on  heart  and  brain, 
It  is  better  left  untaught. 

Take  thou  up  the  song  again: 
There  is  nothing  sad  afloat 
On  the  tide  that  swells  thy  throat! 


I    LOVED   YOU,   ONCE  — 

And  did  you  think  my  heart 
Could  keep  its  love  unchanging, 

Fresh  as  the  buds  that  start 

In  spring,  nor  know  estranging? 

Listen!     The  buds  depart: 
I  loved  you  once,  but  now  — 
I  love  you  more  than  ever. 

'T  is  not  the  early  love; 

With  day  and  night  it  alters, 
And  onward  still  must  move 

Like  earth,  that  never  falters 
For  storm  or  star  above. 

I  loved  you  once ;  but  now  — 

I  love  you  more  than  ever. 

With  gifts  in  those  glad  days 
How  eagerly  I  sought  you! 

Youth,  shining  hope,  and  praise: 
These  were  the  gifts  I  brought  you. 

In  this  world  little  stays: 

43 


44  /  LOVED    YOU,    ONCE  — 

I  loved  you  once,  but  now  — 
I  love  you  more  than  ever. 

A  child  with  glorious  eyes 

Here  in  our  arms  half  sleeping  — 

So  passion  wakeful  lies; 

Then  grows  to  manhood,  keeping 

Its  wistful,  young  surprise : 
I  loved  you  once,  but  now  — 
I  love  you  more  than  ever. 

When  age's  pinching  air 

Strips  summer's  rich  possession, 

And  leaves  the  branches  bare, 
My  secret  in  confession 

Still  thus  with  you  I  '11  share: 
I  loved  you  once,  but  now  — 
I  love  you  more  than  ever. 


II 


THE   BRIDE   OF   WAR 

(ARNOLD'S  MARCH  TO  CANADA,  1775) 


The  trumpet,  with  a  giant  sound, 
Its  harsh  war-summons  wildly  sings; 
And,  bursting  forth  like  mountain-springs, 
Poured  from  the  hillside  camping-ground, 

Each  swift  battalion  shouting  flings 
Its  force  in  line;  where  you  may  see 
The  men,  broad-shouldered,  heavily 
Sway  to  the  swing  of  the  march;  their  heads 
Dark  like  the  stones  in  river-beds. 

Lightly  the  autumn  breezes 
Play  with  the  shining  dust-cloud 
Rising  to  the  sunset  rays 
From  feet  of  the  moving  column. 
Soft,  as  you  listen,  comes 
The  echo  of  iterant  drums, 

47 


48  THE  BRIDE   OF   WAR 

Brought  by  the  breezes  light 

From  the  files  that  follow  the  road. 

A  moment  their  guns  have  glowed 

Sun-smitten  :  then  out  of  sight 

They  suddenly  sink, 

Like  men  who  touch  a  new  grave's  brink! 


So  it  was  the  march  began, 

The  march  of  Morgan's  riflemen, 
Who  like  iron  held  the  van 
In  unhappy  Arnold's  plan 

To  win  Wolfe's  daring  fame  again. 
With  them,  by  her  husband's  side, 

Jemima  Warner,  nobly  free, 
Moved  more  fair  than  when,  a  bride, 

One  year  since,  she  strove  to  hide 
The  blush  it  was  a  joy  to  see. 

in 

O  distant,  terrible  forests  of  Maine, 

With  huge  trees  numberless  as  the  rain 

That  falls  on  your  lonely  lakes ! 

(It  falls  and  sings  through  the  years,  but  wakes 
No  answering  echo  of  joy  or  pain.) 


THE  BRIDE   OF   WAR  49 

Your  tangled  wilderness  was  tracked 

With  struggle  and  sorrow  and  vengeful  act 

'Gainst  Puritan,  pagan,  and  priest. 

Where  wolf  and  panther  and  serpent  ceased, 
Man  added  the  horrors  your  dark  maze  lacked. 

The  land  was  scarred  with  deeds  not  good, 
Like    the    fretting    of    worms    on    withered 
wood. 

What  if  its  venomous  spell 

Breathed  into  Arnold  a  prompting  of  Hell, 
With  slow  empoisoning  force  indued? 


IV 

As  through  that  dreary  realm  he  went, 
Followed  a  shape  of  dark  portent :  — 

Pard-like,  of  furtive  eye,  with  brain 
To  treason  narrowing,  Aaron  Burr, 

Moved  loyal-seeming  in  the  train, 
Led  by  the  arch-conspirator. 

And  craven  Enos  closed  the  rear, 

Whose  honor's  flame  died  out  in  fear. 

Not  sooner  does  the  dry  bough  burn 

And  into  fruitless  ashes  turn, 


50  THE  BRIDE   OF   WAR 

Than  he  with  whispered,  false  command 
Drew  back  the  hundreds  in  his  hand; 
Fled  like  a  shade;  and  all  forsook. 

Wherever  Arnold  bent  his  look, 
Danger  and  doubt  around  him  hung; 
And  pale  Disaster,  shrouded,  flung 
Black  omens  in  his  track,  as  though 
The  fingers  of  a  future  woe 
Already  clutched  his  life,  to  wring 
Some  expiation  for  the  thing 
That  he  was  yet  to  do.     A  chill 
Struck  helpless  many  a  steadfast  will 
Within  the  ranks;  the  very  air 
Rang  with  a  thunder-toned  despair : 
The  hills  seemed  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Like  lost  guides  blinded  by  the  snow. 


Yet  faithful  still  'mid  woe  and  doubt 

One  woman's  loyal  heart  —  whose  pain 
Filled  it  with  pure  celestial  light  — 
Shone  starry-constant  like  the  North, 
Or  that  still  radiance  beaming  forth 
From  sacred  lights  in  some  lone  fane. 


THE  BRIDE   OF   WAR  51 

But  he  whose  ring  Jemima  wore, 

By  want  and  weariness  all  unstrung, 

Though  strong  and  honest  of  heart  and  young, 

Shrank  at  the  blast  that  pierced  so  frore  — 

Like  a  huge,  invisible  bird  of  prey 

Furious  launched  from  Labrador 

And  the  granite  cliffs  of  Saguenay ! 

Along  the  bleak  Dead  River's  banks 
They  forced  amain  their  frozen  way; 
But  ever  from  the  thinning  ranks 
Shapes  of  ice  would  reel  and  fall, 
Human  shapes,  whose  dying  prayer 
Floated,  a  mute  white  mist,  in  air; 
The  crowding  snow  their  pall. 

Spectre-like   Famine  drew   near; 
Her  doom-word  hummed  in  his  ear: 
Ah,  weak  were  woman's  hands  to  reach 
And  save  him  from  the  hellish  charms 
And  wizard  motion  of  those  arms ! 
Yet  only  noble  womanhood 
The  wife  her  dauntless  part  could  teach: 
She  shared  with  him  the  last  dry  food 
And  thronged  with  hopefulness  her  speech, 


52  THE  BRIDE   OF   WAR 

As  when  hard  by  her  home  the  flood 

Of  rushing  Conestoga  fills 

Its  depth  afresh  from  springtide  rills! 

All,  all  in  vain! 

For  far  behind  the  invading  rout 

These  two  were  left  alone; 
And  in  the  waste  their  wildest  shout 

Seemed  but  a  smothered  groan. 
Like  sheeted  wanderers  from  the  grave 
They  moved,  and  yet  seemed  not  to  stir, 
As  icy  gorge  and  sere-leaf 'd  grove 
Of  withered  oak  and  shrouded  fir 
Were  passed,  and  onward  still  they  strove; 
While  the  loud  wind's  artillery  clave 
The  air,  and  furious  sleety  rain 
Swung  like  a  sword  above  the  plain! 


VI 


They  crossed  the  hills;  they  came  to  where 
Through  an  arid  gloom  the  river  Chaudiere 
Fled  like  a  Maenad  with  outstreaming  hair; 
And  there  the  soldier  sank,  and  died. 


THE  BRIDE    OF   WAR  53 

Death-dumb  he  fell;  yet  ere  life  sped, 
Child-like  on  her  knee  he  laid  his  head. 
She  strove  to  pray;  but  all  words  fled 
Save  those  their  love  had  sanctified. 

And  then  her  voice  rose  waveringly 
To  the  notes  of  a  mother's  lullaby; 
But  her  song  was  only  "  Ah,  must  thou 

die?" 
And  to  her  his  eyes  death-still  replied. 


VII 

Dead  leaves  and  stricken  boughs 
She  heaped  o'er  the  fallen  form  — 
Wolf  nor  hawk  nor  lawless  storm 
Him  from  his  rest  should  rouse; 
But  first,  with  solemn  vows, 
Took  rifle,  pouch,  and  horn, 
And  the  belt  that  he  had  worn. 
Then,  onward  pressing  fast 
Through  the  forest  rude  and  vast, 
Hunger-wasted,  fever-parch'd, 
Many  bitter  days  she  marched 


54  THE  BRIDE   OF   WAR 

With  bleeding  feet  that  spurned  the  flinty  pain ; 
One    thought    always    throbbing    through    her 

brain : 

"They  shall  never  say,  'He  was  afraid,'  — 
They  shall  never  cry,  *  The  coward  stayed ! ' ' 


VIII 

Now  the  wilderness  is  passed; 
Now  the  first  hut  reached,  at  last. 

Ho,  dwellers  by  the  frontier  trail, 
Come  forth  and  greet  the  bride  of  war! 
From  cabin  and  rough  settlement 
They  come  to  speed  her  on  her  way  — 
Maidens,  whose  ruddy  cheeks  grow  pale 
With  pity  never  felt  before; 
Children  that  cluster  at  the  door; 
Mothers,  whose  toil-worn  hands  are  lent 
To  help,  or  bid  her  longer  stay. 
But  through  them  all  she  passes  on, 
Strangely  martial,  fair  and  wan; 
Nor  waits  to  listen  to  their  cheers 
That  sound  so  faintly  in  her  ears. 


THE  BRIDE    OF   WAR  55 

For  now  all  scenes  around  her  shift, 
Like  those  before  a  racer's  eyes 
When,  foremost  sped  and  madly  swift, 
Quick  stretching  toward  the  goal  he  flies, 
Yet    feels    his    strength    wane    with    his 

breath, 
And  purpose  fail  'mid  fears  of  death, — 

Till,  like  the  flashing  of  a  lamp, 

Starts  forth  the  sight  of  Arnold's  camp, — 

The  bivouac  flame,  and  sinuous  gleam 

Of  steel, —  where,  crouched,  the  army  waits, 

Ere  long,  beyond  the  midnight  stream, 

To  storm  Quebec's  ice-mounded  gates. 


IX 


Then  to  the  leader  she  was  brought, 
And  spoke  her  simply  loyal  thought. 
If,  'mid  the  shame  of  after- days, 
The  man  who  wronged  his  country's  trust 
(Yet  now  in  worth  outweighed  all  praise) 
Remembered  what  this  woman  wrought, 
It  should  have  bowed  him  to  the  dust! 


56  THE   BRIDE   OF   WAR 

"  Humbly  my  soldier-husband  tried 
To  do  his  part.     He  served, —  and  died. 
But  honor  did  not  die.     His  name 
And  honor  —  bringing  both,  I  came; 
And  this  his  rifle,  here,  to  show, 
While  far  away  the  tired  heart  sleeps, 
To-day  his  faith  with  you  he  keeps !  " 

Proudly  the  war-bride,  ending  so, 

Sank  breathless  in  the  dumb  white  snow. 


A   RUNE   OF   THE   RAIN 

O  many-toned  rain! 
O  myriad  sweet  voices  of  the  rain ! 
How  welcome  is  its  delicate  overture 
At  evening,  when  the  moist  and  glowing  west 
Seals  all  things  with  cool  promise  of  night's  rest. 

At  first  it  would  allure 
The  earth  to  kinder  mood, 
With  dainty  flattering 
Of  soft,  sweet  pattering : 
Faintly  now  you  hear  the  tramp 
Of  the  fine  drops,  falling  damp 
On  the  dry,  sun-seasoned  ground 
And  the  thirsty  leaves,  resound. 
But  anon,  imbued 
With  a  sudden,  bounding  access 
Of  passion,  it  relaxes 
All  timider  persuasion, 
And,  with  nor  pretext  ner  occasion, 

57 


58  A   RUNE   OF   THE   RAIN 

Its  wooing  redoubles; 
And  pounds  the  ground,  and  bubbles 
In  sputtering  spray, 
Flinging  itself  in  a  fury 
Of  flashing  white  away; 
Till  the  dusty  road, 
Dank-perfumed,  is  o'erflowed; 
And    the    grass,    and    the    wide-hung 
trees, 

The  vines,  the  flowers  in  their  beds, 

The  virid  corn  that  to  the  breeze 
Rustles  along  the  garden-rows, — 
Visibly  lift  their  heads, 
And,  as  the  quick  shower  wilder  grows, 
Upleap  with  answering  kisses  to  the  rain. 

Then,  the  slow  and  pleasant  murmur 
Of  its  subsiding, 

As  the  pulse  of  the  storm  beats  firmer, 
And  the  steady  rain 
Drops  into  a  cadenced  chiding! 
Deep-breathing  rain, 
The  sad  and  ghostly  noise 
Wherewith  thou  dost  complain  — 
Thy  plaintive,  spiritual  voice, 


A   RUNE   OF   THE   RAIN  59 

Heard  thus  at  close  of  day 

Through  vaults  of  twilight  gray  — 

Vexes  me  with  sweet  pain; 

And  still  my  soul  is  fain 

To  know  the  secret  of  that  yearning 

Which  in  thine  utterance  I  hear  returning. 

Hush,  oh  hush ! 

Break  not  the  dreamy  rush 

Of  the  rain : 

Touch  not  the  marring  doubt 

Words  bring  to  the  certainty 

Of  its  soft  refrain; 

But  let  the  flying  fringes  flout 

Their  drops  against  the  pane, 

And  the  gurgling  throat  of  the  water-spout 

Groan  in  the  eaves  amain. 

The  earth  is  wedded  to  the  shower; 
Darkness  and  awe  gird  round  the  bridal  hour ! 


ii 


O  many-toned  rain! 
It  hath  caught  the  strain 


60  A   RUNE   OF  THE  RAIN 

Of  a  wilder  tune, 

Ere  the  same  night's  noon, 

When  dreams  and  sleep  forsake  me, 

And  sudden  dread  doth  wake  me, 

To  hear  the  booming  drums  of  heaven  beat 

The   long   roll  to  battle;    when  the  knotted 

cloud, 

With  an  echoing  loud, 
Bursts  asunder 

At  the  sudden  resurrection  of  the  thunder; 
And  the  fountains  of  the  air, 
Unsealed  again,  sweep,  ruining,  everywhere, 
To  wrap  the  world  in  a  watery  winding-sheet. 


in 


O  myriad  sweet  voices  of  the  rain ! 
When  the  airy  war  doth  wane, 
And  the  storm  to  the  east  hath  flown, 
Cloaked  close  in  the  whirling  wind, 
There  's  a  voice  still  left  behind 
In  each  heavy-hearted  tree, 
Charged  with  tearful  memory 
Of  the  vanished  rain : 


A   RUNE   OF   THE  RAIN  61 

From  their  leafy  lashes  wet 
Drip  the  dews  of  fresh  regret 
For  the  lover  that  's  gone ! 
All  else  is  still ; 
Yet  the  stars  are  listening, 
And  low  o'er  the  wooded  hill 
Hangs,  upon  listless  wing 
Outspread,  a  shape  of  damp,  blue  cloud, 
Watching,  like  a  bird  of  evil 
That  knows  nor  mercy  nor  reprieval, 
The    slow    and    silent    death    of    the    pallid 
moon. 


IV 


But  soon,  returning  duly, 
Dawn  whitens  the  wet  hilltops  bluely. 
To  her  vision  pure  and  cold 
The  night's  wild  tale  is  told 
On  the  glistening  leaf,  in  the  mid-road  pool, 
The  garden  mold  turned  dark  and  cool, 
And  the  meadows'  trampled  acres. 
But  hark,  how  fresh  the  song  of  the  winged 
music-makers !       • 


62  A   RUNE   OF   THE   RAIN 

For  now  the  meanings  bitter, 

Left  by  the  rain,  make  harmony 

With  the  swallow's  matin-twitter, 

And  the  robin's  note,  like  the  wind's  in  a  tree. 

The  infant  morning  breathes  sweet  breath, 

And  with  it  is  blent 

The  wistful,  wild,  moist  scent 

Of  the  grass  in  the  marsh  which  the  sea  nourisheth 

And  behold ! 

The  last  reluctant  drop  of  the  storm, 

Wrung  from  the  roof,  is  smitten  warm 

And  turned  to  gold; 

For  in  its  veins  doth  run 

The  very  blood  of  the  bold,  unsullied  sun! 


BREAKERS 

Far  out  at  sea  there  has  been  a  storm, 
And  still,  as  they  roll  their  liquid  acres, 
High-heaped  the  billows  lower  and  glisten. 
The  air  is  laden,  moist,  and  warm 
With  the  dying  tempest's  breath; 
And,  as  I  walk  the  lonely  strand 
With  sea-weed  strewn,  my  forehead  fanned 
By  wet  salt-winds,  I  watch  the  breakers, 
Furious  sporting,   tossed  and  tumbling, 
Shatter  here  with  a  dreadful  rumbling  — 
Watch,  and  muse,  and  vainly  listen 
To  the  inarticulate  mumbling 
Of  the  hoary-headed  deep ; 
For  who  may  tell  me  what  it  saith, 
Muttering,  moaning  as  in  sleep  ? 

Slowly  and  heavily 
Comes  in  the  sea, 

With  memories  of  storm  o'erfreighted, 
With  heaving  heart  and  breath  abated, 

63 


64  BREAKERS 

Pregnant  with  some  mysterious,  endless  sorrow, 
And  seamed  with  many  a  gaping,  sighing  furrow. 

Slowly  and  heavily 
Grows  the  green  water-mound; 
But  drawing  ever  nigher, 
Towering  ever  higher, 
Swollen  with  an  inward  rage 
Naught  but  ruin  can  assuage, 
Swift,  now,  without  sound, 
Creeps  stealthily 
Up  to  the  shore — 
Creeps,  creeps  and  undulates; 
As  one  dissimulates 
Till,  swayed  by  hateful  frenzy, 
Through  passion  grown  immense,  he 
Bursts  forth  hostilely; 
And  rising,  a  smooth  billow  — 
Its  swelling,  sunlit  dome 
Thinned  to  a  tumid  ledge 
With  keen,  curved  edge 
Like  the  scornful  curl 
Of  lips  that  snarl  — 
O'ertops  itself  and  breaks 
Into  a  raving  foam; 


BREAKERS  65 

So  springs  upon  the  shore 
With  a  hungry  roar; 
Its  first  fierce  anger  slakes 
On  the  stony  shallow; 
And  runs  up  on  the  land, 
Licking  the  smooth,  hard  sand, 
Relentless,  cold,  yet  wroth; 
And  dies  in  savage  froth. 

Then  with  its  backward  swirl 
The  sands  and  the  stones,  how  they  whirl! 
O,  fiercely  doth  it  draw 
Them  to  its  chasm'd  maw, 
And  against  it  in  vain 
They  linger  and  strain; 
And  as  they  slip  away 
Into  the  seething  gray 
Fill  all  the  thunderous  air 
With  the  horror  of  their  despair, 
And  their  wild  terror  wreak 
In  one  hoarse,  wailing  shriek. 

But  scarce  is  this  done, 
When  another  one 
Falls  like  the  bolt  from  a  bellowing  gun, 


66  BREAKERS 

And  sucks  away  the  shore 

As  that  did  before : 

And  another  shall  smother  it  o'er. 

Then  there  's  a  lull  —  a  half-hush ; 
And  forward  the  little  waves  rush, 
Toppling  and  hurrying, 
Each  other  worrying, 
And  in  their  haste 
Run  to  waste. 

Yet  again  is  heard  the  trample 
Of  the  surges  high  and  ample : 
Their  dreadful  meeting  — 
The  wild  and  sudden  breaking  — 
The  dinting,  and  battering,  and  beating, 
And  swift  forsaking. 

And  ever  they  burst  and  boom, 
A  numberless  host; 
Like  heralds  of  doom 
To  the  trembling  coast; 
And  ever  the  tangled  spray 
Is  tossed  from  the  fierce  affray, 


BREAKERS  67 

And,  as  with  spectral  arms 
That  taunt  and  beckon  and  mock, 
And  scatter  vague  alarms, 
Clasps  and  unclasps  the  rock; 
Listlessly  over  it  wanders; 
Moodily,  madly  maunders, 
And  hissingly  falls 
From  the  glistening  walls. 

So  all  day  along  the  shore 
Shout  the  breakers,  green  and  hoar, 
Weaving  out  their  weird  tune; 
Till  at  night  the  full  moon 
Weds  the  dark  with  that  ring 
Of  gold  that  you  see  her  fling 
On  the  misty  air. 
Then  homeward  slow  returning 
To  slumbers  deep  I  fare, 
Filled  with  an  infinite  yearning, 
With  thoughts  that  rise  and  fall 
To  the  sound  of  the  sea's  hollow  call, 
Breathed  now  from  white-lit  waves  that  reach 
Cold  fingers  o'er  the  damp,  dark  beach, 
To  scatter  a  spray  on  my  dreams; 


68  BREAKERS 

Till  the  slow  and  measured  rote 

Brings  a  drowsy  ease 

To  my  spirit,  and  seems 

To  set  it  soothingly  afloat 

On  broad  and  buoyant  seas 

Of  endless  rest,  lulled  by  the  dirge 

Of  the  melancholy  surge. 


BLACKMOUTH,    OF   COLORADO 

"  Who  is  Blackmouth?  "  Well,  that 's  hard  to  say. 
Mebbe  he  might  ha'  told  you,  't  other  day, 
If  you  'd  been  here.     Now, —  he  's  gone  away. 
Come  to  think  on,  't  would  n't   ha'  been  no  use 
If  you  'd  called  here  earlier.     His  excuse 
Always  was,  whenever  folks  would  ask  him 
Where   he   hailed  from,  an'  would  tease  an'  task 

him;  — 
What  d'  you  s'pose  ?    He  just  said,  "  I  don'  know." 

That  was  truth.     He  came  here  long  ago; 
But,  before  that,  he  'd  been  born  somewhere : 
The  conundrum  started  first,  right  there. 
Little  shaver  —  afore  he  knew  his  name 
Or  the  place  from  whereabouts  he  came — 
On  a  wagon-train  the  Apaches  caught  him. 
Killed  the  old  folks !     But  this  cus'  —  they  brought 
him 

69 


70  BLACKMOUTH,   OF  COLORADO 

Safe  away  from  fire  an'  knife  an'  arrows. 
So'thin'  'bout  him  must  have  touched  their  mar 
rows: 

They  was  merciful;  —  treated  him  real  good; 
Brought    him    up    to    man's    age    well    's    they 

could. 

Now,  d'  you  b'lieve  me,  that  there  likely  lad, 
For  all  they  used  him  so,  went  to  the  bad: 
Leastways  left  the  red  men,  that  he  knew, 
'N'  come  to  look  for  folks  like  me  an'  you;  — 
Goldarned  white  folks  that  he  never  saw. 
Queerest  thing  was  —  though  he  loved  a  squaw, 
'T  was  on  her   account  he  planned  escape; 
Shook  the  Apaches,  an'  took  up  red  tape 
With  the  U.  S.   gov'ment  arter  a  while; 
Tho'  they  do  say  gov'ment  may  be  vile, 
Mean  an'  treacherous  an'  deceivin'.     Well, 
/  ain't  sayin'  our  gov'ment  is  a  sell. 

Bocanegra  —  Spanish  term  —  I  Ve  heard 
Stands  for  "  Blackmouth."     Now  this  curious  bird, 
Known  as  Bocanegra,  gave  his  life 
Most  for  others.     First,  he  saved  his  wife; 
Her  I  spoke  of;  —  nothin'  but  a  squaw. 
You  might  wonder  by  what  sort  of  law 


BLACKMOUTH,  OF  COLORADO  71 

He,  a  white  man  born,  should  come  to  love  her. 
But  't  was  somehow  so :  he  did  discover 
Beauty  in  her,  of  the  holding  kind. 
Some  men  love  the  light,  an'  some  the  shade. 
Round  that  little  Indian  girl  there  played 
Soft  an'  shadowy  tremblings,  like  the  dark 
Under  trees;  yet  now  an'  then  a  spark, 
Quick  's  a  firefly,  flashing  from  her  eyes, 
Made  you  think  of  summer-midnight  skies. 
She  was  faithful,  too,  like  midnight  stars. 
As  for  Blackmouth,  if  you  'd  seen  the  scars 
Made  by  wounds  he  suffered  for  her  sake, 
You  'd  have  called  him  true,  and  no  mistake. 

Growin'  up  a  man,  he  scarcely  met 
Other  white  folks;  an'  his  heart  was  set 
On  this  red  girl.     Yet  he  said:  "We  '11  wait. 
You  must  never  be  my  wedded  mate 
Till  we  reach  the  white  man's  country.     There, 
Everything  that  's  done  is  fair  and  square." 
Patiently  they  stayed,  thro'  trust  or  doubt, 
Till  tow'rds  Colorado  he  could  scout 
Some  safe  track.     He  told  her:  "You  go  first. 
All  my  joy  goes  with  you :  —  that  's  the  worst ! 
But  /  wait,  to  guard  or  hide  the  trail." 


72  BLACKMOUTH,  OF  COLORADO 

Indians  caught  him;  an'  they  gave  him  —  hail; 
Cut  an'  tortured  him,  till  he  was  bleeding; 
Yet  they  found  that  still  they  were  n't  succeeding. 
"  Where    's    that    squaw  ? "   they  asked.     "  We  '11 

have  her  blood ! 

Either  that,  or  grind  you  into  mud; 
Pick  your  eyes  out,  too,  if  you  can't  see 
Where  she  's  gone  to.     Which,  now,  shall  it  be? 
Tell  us  where  she  's  hid." 

"I  '11  show  the  way," 

Blackmouth  says;  an'  leads  toward  dawn  of  day, 
Till  they  come  straight  out  beside  the  brink 
Of  a  precipice  that  seems  to  sink 
Into  everlasting  gulfs  below. 
"  Loose  me  !  "    Blackmouth   tells   'em.      "  But  go 

slow." 

Then  they  loosed  him;  and,  with  one  swift  leap, 
Blackmouth  swooped  right  down  into  the  deep ;  — 
Jumped  out  into  space  beyond  the  edge, 
While  the  Apaches  cowered  along  the  ledge. 
Seven  hundred  feet,  they  say.     That  's  guff! 
Seventy  foot,  I  tell  you,  's  'bout  enough. 
Indians  called  him  a  dead  antelope ; 
But  they  could  n't  touch  the  bramble-slope 


BLACKMOUTH,  OF  COLORADO  73 

Where    he,  bruised    and    stabbed,    crawled   under 

brush. 
Their  hand  was  beat  hollow:  he  held  a  flush. 

Day  and  night  he  limped  or  crawled  along: 
Winds  blew  hot,  yet  sang  to  him  a  song 
(So  he  told  me,  once)  that  gave  him  hope. 
Every  time  he  saw  a  shadow  grope 
Down  the  hillsides,  from  a  flying  cloud, 
Something  touched  his  heart  that  made  him  proud: 
Seemed  to  him  he  saw  her  dusky  face 
Watching  over  him,  from  place  to  place. 
Every  time  the  dry  leaves  rustled  near, 
Seemed  to  him  she  whispered,  "  Have  no  fear !  'J 

So  at  last  he  found  her:  —  they  were  married. 
But,  from  those  days  on,  he  always  carried 
Marks  of  madness ;  actually  —  yes  !  — 
Trusted  the  good  faith  of  these  U.  S. 

Indian  hate  an'  deviltry  he  braved; 
'N'    scores    an'    scores    of    white   men's   lives   he 

saved. 

Just  for  that,  his  name  should  be  engraved. 
But  it  won't  be !     U.  S.  gov'ment  dreads 
Men  who  're  taller  'n  politicians'  heads. 


74  BLACKMOUTH,  OF  COLORADO 

All  the  while,  his  wife  —  tho'  half  despised 
By  the  frontier  folks  that  civilized 
An'  converted  her  —  served  by  his  side, 
Helping  faithfully,  until  she  died. 
Left  alone,  he  lay  awake  o'  nights, 
Thtnkin'  what  they  'd  both  done  for  the  whites. 
Then  he  thought  of  her,  and  Indian  people; 
Tryin'  to  measure,  by  the  church's  steeple, 
Just  how  Christian  our  great  nation  's  been 
Toward  those  native  tribes  so  full  of  sin. 
When  he  counted  all  the  wrongs  we  Ve  done 
To  the  wild  men  of  the  setting  sun, 
Seem'd  to  him  the  gov'ment  wa'n't  quite  fair. 
When  its  notes  came  due,  it  wa'n't  right  there. 
U.  S.  gov'ment  promised  Indians  lots, 
But  at  last  it  closed  accounts  with  shots. 
Mouth  was  black,  perhaps;  —  but  he  was  white. 
Calling  gov'ment  black  don't  seem  polite : 
Yet  I  '11  swear,  its  actions  would  n't  show 
'Longside  Blackmouth's  better  'n  soot  with  snow. 

Yes,  sir !     Blackmouth  took  the  other  side : 
Honestly  for  years  an'  years  he  tried 
Getting  justice  for  the  Indians.     He, 
Risking  life  an'  limb  for  you  an'  me;  — 


BLACKMOUTH,  OF  COLORADO  75 

He,  the  man  who  proved  his  good  intent 
By  his  deeds,  an'  plainly  showed  he  meant 
He  would  die  for  us, —  turned  round  an'  said: 
"  White  men  have  been  saved.   Now,  save  the  red! " 
But  it  did  n't  pan  out.     No  one  would  hark. 
"  Let  the  prairie-dogs  an'  Blackmouth  bark," 
Said  our  folks.     And  —  no,  he  wa'n't  resigned, 
But  concluded  he  had  missed  his  find. 

"  Where  is  Blackmouth  ?  "   That  I  can't  decide. 
Red  an'  white  men,  both,  he  tried  to  serve; 
But  I  guess,  at  last,  he  lost  his  nerve. 
Kind  o'  tired  out.     See  ?     He  had  his  pride : 
Gave  his  life  for  others,  far  's  he  could, 
Hoping  it  would  do  'em  some  small  good. 
Did  n't  seem  to  be  much  use.     An'  so  — 
Well;  you  see  that  man,  dropped  in  the  snow, 
Where  the  crowd  is?     Suicide,  they  say. 
Looks  as  though  he  had  quit  work,  to  stay. 
Bullet  in  the  breast. —  His  body  's  there ; 
But    poor    Blackmouth    's    gone  —  I    don't    know 
where ! 


THE  CHILD-YEAR 


Dying  of  hunger  and  sorrow : 
I  die  for  my  youth,  I  fear!" 

Murmured  the  midnight-haunting 
Voice  of  the  stricken  Year. 

There  like  a  child  it  perished 
In  the  stormy  thoroughfare : 

The  snow  with  cruel  whiteness 
Had  aged  its  flowing  hair. 

Ah,  little  Year  so  fruitful, 

Ah,  child  that  brought  us  bliss, 

Must  we  so  early  lose  you  — 
Our  dear  hopes  end  in  this? 


76 


THE   CHILD-YEAR  77 

II 

"  Too  young  am  I,  too  tender, 

To  bear  earth's  avalanche 
Of  wrong,  that  grinds  down  life-hope, 
And  makes  my  heart's-blood  blanch. 

"Tell  him  who  soon  shall  follow 

Where  my  tired  feet  have  bled, 
He  must  be  older,  shrewder, 
Hard,  cold,  and  selfish-bred  — 

"  Or  else  like  me  be  trampled 

Under  the  harsh  world's  heel. 
'T  is  weakness  to  be  youthful ; 
'T  is  death  to  love  and  feel." 


in 


Then  saw  I  how  the  New  Year 
Came  like  a  scheming  man, 

With  icy  eyes,  his  forehead 
Wrinkled  by  care  and  plan 


THE   CHILD-YEAR 

For  trade  and  rule  and  profit. 

To  him  the  fading  child 
Looked  up  and  cried,  "  Oh,  brother !  " 

But  died  even  while  it  smiled. 

Down  bent  the  harsh  new-comer 

To  lift  with  loving  arm 
The  wanderer  mute  and  fallen; 

And  lo  !  his  eyes  were  warm ; 

All  changed  he  grew;  the  wrinkles 
Vanished:  he,  too,  looked  young — 

As  if  that  lost  child's  spirit 
Into  his  breast  had  sprung. 

So  are  those  lives  not  wasted, 

Too  frail  to  bear  the  fray. 
So  Years  may  die,  yet  leave  us 

Young  hearts  in  a  world  grown  gray. 


CHRISTENING 

To-day  I  saw  a  little,  calm-eyed  child, — 

Where    soft    lights    rippled    and    the    shadows 
tarried 

Within  a  church's  shelter  arched  and  aisled, — 
Peacefully  wondering,  to  the  altar  carried; 

White-robed  and  sweet,  in  semblance  of  a  flower; 

White  as  the  daisies  that  adorned  the  chancel ; 
Borne  like  a  gift,  the  young  wife's  natural  dower, 

Offered  to  God  as  her  most  precious  hansel. 

Then  ceased  the  music,  and  the  little  one 
Was  silent,  with  the  multitude  assembled 

Hearkening;  and  when  of  Father  and  of  Son 
He  spoke,  the    pastor's  deep  voice   broke    and 
trembled. 

But  she,  the  child,  knew  not  the  solemn  words, 
And  suddenly  yielded  to  a  troublous  wailing, 

As  helpless  as  the  cry  of  frightened  birds 

Whose  untried  wings  for  flight  are  unavailing. 

79 


8o  CHRISTENING 

How  much  the  same,  I  thought,  with  older  folk ! 

The  blessing  falls:  we  call  it  tribulation, 
And  fancy  that  we  wear  a  sorrow's  yoke, 

Even  at  the  moment  of  our  consecration. 

Pure  daisy-child!     Whatever  be  the  form 
Of  dream  or  doctrine, —  or  of  unbelieving, — 

A  hand  may  touch  our  heads,  amid  the  storm 
Of  grief  and  doubt,  to  bless  beyond  bereaving; 

A  voice  may  sound,  in  measured,  holy  rite 
Of  speech  we  know  not,  tho'  its  earnest  meaning 

Be  clear  as  dew,  and  sure  as  starry  light 
Gathered  from  some  far-off  celestial  gleaning. 

Wise  is  the  ancient  sacrament  that  blends 

This  weakling  cry  of  children  in  our  churches 

With  strength  of  prayer  or  anthem  that  ascends 
To    Him    who    hearts    of   men    and    children 
searches ; 

Since  we  are  like  the  babe,  who,  soothed  again, 
Within  her  mother's  cradling  arm  lay  nested, 

Bright  as  a  new  bud,  now,  refreshed  by  rain: 
And  on  her  hair,  it  seemed,  heaven's  radiance 
rested. 


THANKSGIVING    TURKEY 

Valleys  lay  in  sunny  vapor, 
And  a  radiance  mild  was  shed 

From  each  tree  that  like  a  taper 
At  a  feast  stood.     Then  we  said, 

"  Our  feast,  too,  shall  soon  be  spread, 
Of  good  Thanksgiving  turkey." 

And  already  still  November 
Drapes  her  snowy  table  here. 

Fetch  a  log,  then;  coax  the  ember; 
Fill  your  hearts  with  old-time  cheer; 
Heaven  be  thanked  for  one  more  year, 
And  our  Thanksgiving  turkey! 

Welcome,  brothers — all  our  party 
Gathered  in  the  homestead  old! 

Shake  the  snow  off  and  with  hearty 
Hand-shakes  drive  away  the  cold; 
Else  your  plate  you'll  hardly  hold 
Of  good  Thanksgiving  turkey. 

81 


82  THANKSGIVING    TURKEY 

When  the  skies  are  sad  and  murky, 
'Tis  a  cheerful  thing  to  meet 

Round  this  homely  roast  of  turkey 

Pilgrims,  pausing  just  to  greet, 
Then,  with  earnest  grace,  to  eat 
A  new  Thanksgiving  turkey. 

And  the  merry  feast  is  freighted 
With  its  meanings  true  and  deep. 

Those  we've  loved  and  those  we've  hated, 
All,  to-day,  the  rite  will  keep, 
All,  to-day,  their  dishes  heap 

With  plump  Thanksgiving  turkey. 

But  how  many  hearts  must  tingle 
Now  with  mournful  memories! 

In  the  festal  wine  shall  mingle 
Unseen  tears,  perhaps  from  eyes 
That  look  beyond  the  board  where  lies 
Our  plain  Thanksgiving  turkey. 

See  around  us,  drawing  nearer, 

Those  faint  yearning  shapes  of  air — 

Friends  than  whom  earth  holds  none  dearer! 
No  —  alas!  they  are  not  there: 


THANKSGIVING    TURKEY  83 

Have  they,  then,  forgot  to  share 
Our  good  Thanksgiving  turkey? 

Some  have  gone  away  and  tarried 

Strangely  long  by  some  strange  wave; 

Some  have  turned  to  foes;  we  carried 
Some  unto  the  pine-girt  grave: 
They  '11  come  no  more  so  joyous-brave 
To  take  Thanksgiving  turkey. 

Nay,  repine  not.     Let  our  laughter 

Leap  like  firelight  up  again. 
Soon  we  touch  the  wide  Hereafter, 

Snow-field  yet  untrod  of  men : 

Shall  we  meet  once  more — and  when?  — 
To  eat  Thanksgiving  turkey. 


BEFORE   THE   SNOW 

Autumn    is    gone:    through    the   blue    woodlands 
bare 

Shatters  the  rainy  wind.     A  myriad  leaves, 
Like  birds  that  fly  the  mournful  Northern  air. 

Flutter  away  from  the  old  forest's  eaves. 

Autumn  is  gone :  as  yonder  silent  rill, 

Slow  eddying  o'er  thick  leaf-heaps  lately  shed, 

My  spirit,  as  I  walk,  moves  awed  and  still, 
By  thronging  fancies  wild  and  wistful  led. 

Autumn  is  gone:  alas,  how  long  ago 

The    grapes    were   plucked,   and   garnered   was 

the  grain! 

How  soon  death  settles  on  us,  and  the  snow 
Wraps    with   its   white    alike    our   graves,    our 
gain! 

84 


BEFORE    THE  SNOW  85 

Yea,  autumn's  gone!     Yet  it  robs  not  my  mood 
Of  that  which  makes  moods  dear, —  some  shoot 

of  spring 
Still    sweet    within    me;    or   thoughts    of   yonder 

wood 
We  walked  in, — memory's  rare  environing. 

And,  though  they  die,  the  seasons  only  take 
A  ruined  substance.     All  that's  best  remains 

In  the  essential  vision  that  can  make 

One  light  for  life,  love,  death,  their  joys,  their 
pains. 


Ill 


YOUTH   TO   THE    POET 

(TO    OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES) 

Strange  spell  of  youth  for  age,  and  age  for  youth, 

Affinity  between  two  forms  of  truth!  — 

As  if  the  dawn  and  sunset  watched  each  other, 

Like  and  unlike  as  children  of  one  mother 

And  wondering  at  the  likeness.     Ardent  eyes 

Of  young  men  see  the  prophecy  arise 

Of  what  their  lives  shall  be  when  all  is  told ; 

And,  in  the  far-off  glow  of  years  called  old, 

Those  other  eyes  look  back  to  catch  a  trace 

Of  what  was  once  their  own  unshadowed  grace. 

But  here  in  our  dear  poet  both  are  blended — 

Ripe  age  begun,  yet  golden  youth  not  ended;  — 

Even  as  his  song  the  willowy  scent  of  spring 

Doth  blend  with  autumn's  tender  mellowing, 

And  mixes  praise  with  satire,  tears  with  fun, 

In  strains  that  ever  delicately  run; 

So  musical  and  wise,  page  after  page, 

The  sage  a  minstrel  grows,  the  bard  a  sage. 


90  YOUTH   TO   THE  POET 

The  dew  of  youth  fills  yet  his  late-sprung  flowers, 
And  day-break  glory  haunts  his  evening  hours. 
Ah,  such  a  life  prefigures  its  own  moral: 
That  first  "  Last  Leaf"  is  now  a  leaf  of  laurel, 
Which — smiling  not,  but  trembling  at  the  touch  — 
Youth  gives  back  to  the  hand  that  gave  so  much. 

EVENING  OF  DECEMBER  3,  1879. 


THE   SWORD    DHAM 

"How  shall  we  honor  the  man  who  creates?" 

Asked  the  Bedouin  chief,  the  poet  Antar; — 
"  Who  unto  the  truth  flings  open  our  gates, 

Or  fashions  new  thoughts  from  the  light  of  a 

star; 
Or  forges  with  craft  of  his  finger  and  brain 

Some  marvelous  weapon  we  copy  in  vain; 
Or  chants  to  the  winds  a  wild  song   that   shall 
wander  forever  undying? 

"  See !     His  reward  is  in  envies  and  hates ; 

In  lips  that  deny,  or  in  stabs  that  may  kill." 
"Nay,"  said  the  smith;  "for  there's  one  here  who 

waits 

Humbly  to  serve  you   with  unmeasured   skill, 
Sure  that  no  utmost  devotion  can  fail, 
Offered  to  you,  nor  unfriended  assail 
The  heart  of  the   hero  and  poet  Antar,  whose 
fame  is  undying !  " 
91 


92  THE  SWORD  DHAM 

"Speak,"  said  the  chief.      Then   the   smith:    "O 

Antar, 
It  is  I  who    would    serve    you!     I    know,  by 

the  soul 

Of  the  poet  within  you,  no  envy  can  bar 
The   stream    of  your   gratitude, — once   let   it 

roll. 

Listen.     The  lightning,  your  camel  that  slew, 
/  caught,  and  wrought  in  this  sword-blade  for 

you;  — 

Sword  that   no    foe    shall    encounter   unhurt,  or 
depart  from  undying." 

Burst  from  the  eyes  of  Antar  a  swift  rain, — 
Gratitude's  glittering  drops, —  as  he  threw 
One  shining  arm  round  the  smith,  like  a  chain. 

Closer  the  man  to  his  bosom  he  drew; 
Thankful,  caressing,  with  "  Great  is  my  debt." 
"Yea,"   said   the   smith,    and   his   eyelids   were 

wet: 

"  I  knew  the  sword   Dham  would  unite  me  with 
you  in  an  honor  undying." 

"  So  ?  "  asked  the  chief,  as  his  thumb-point  at  will 
Silently  over  the  sword's  edge  played. 


THE   SWORD  DHAM  93 

—  "  Ay !  "  said  the  smith,  "  but  there  's  one  thing, 

still : 

Who  is  the  smiter,  shall  smite  with  this  blade  ?  " 
Jealous,  their  eyes  met;  and  fury  awoke. 

"  /  am  the  smiter !  "  Antar  cried.     One  stroke 
Rolled  the  smith's  head  from  his  neck,  and  gave 
him  remembrance  undying. 

"  Seek  now  who  may,  no  search  will  avail : 

No  man  the  mate  of  this  weapon  shall  own!  " 
Yet,  in  his  triumph,  the  chieftain  made  wail : 

"Slain  is  the  craftsman,  the  one  friend  alone 
Able  to  honor  the  man  who  creates. 

I  slew  him  —  7,  who  am  poet!     O  fates, 
Grant  that  the  envious  blade  slaying  artists  shall 
make  them  undying !  " 


"AT   THE    GOLDEN    GATE" 

Before  the  golden  gate  she  stands, 
With  drooping  head,  with  idle  hands 
Loose-clasped,  and  bent  beneath  the  weight 
Of  unseen  woe.     Too  late,  too  late ! 

Those  carved  and  fretted, 

Starred,  rosetted 
Panels  shall  not  open  ever 
To  her  who  seeks  the  perfect  mate. 

Only  the  tearless  enter  there  : 
Only  the  soul  that,  like  a  prayer, 
No  bolt  can  stay,  no  wall  may  bar, 
Shall  dream  the  dreams  grief  cannot  mar. 

No  door  of  cedar, 

Alas,  shall  lead  her 
Unto  the  stream  that  shows  forever 
Love's  face  like  some  reflected  star! 

They  say  that  golden  barrier  hides 

A  realm  where  deathless  spring  abides ; 

94 


"AT   THE   GOLDEN  GATE"  95 

Where  flowers  shall  fade  not,  and  there  floats 
Thro'  moon-rays  mild  or  sunlit  motes — 

'Mid  dewy  alleys 

That  gird  the  palace, 
And  fountain'd  spray's  unceasing  quiver — 
A  dulcet  rain  of  song-birds'  notes. 

The  sultan  lord  knew  not  her  name; 
But  to  the  door  that  fair  shape  came: 
The  hour  had  struck,  the  way  was  right, 
Traced  by  her  lamp's  pale,  flickering  light. 

But  ah,  whose  error 

Has  brought  this  terror? 
Whose  fault  has  foiled  her  fond  endeavor? 
The  gate  swings  to :  her  hope  takes  flight. 

The  harp,  the  song,  the  nightingales 
She  hears,  beyond.     The  night- wind  wails 
Without,  to  sound  of  feast  within, 
While  here  she  stands,  shut  out  by  sin. 

And  be  that  revel 

Of  angel  or  devil, 
She  longs  to  sit  beside  the  giver, 
That  she  at  last  her  prize  may  win. 


96  "AT   THE   GOLDEN  GATE" 

Her  lamp  has  fallen ;  her  eyes  are  wet ; 
Frozen  she  stands,  she  lingers  yet; 
But  through  the  garden's  gladness  steals 
A  whisper  that  each  heart  congeals  — 

A  moan  of  grieving 

Beyond  relieving, 

Which  makes  the  proudest  of  them  shiver. 
And  suddenly  the  sultan  kneels! 

The  lamp  was  quenched;  he  found  her  dead, 
When  dawn  had  turned  the  threshold  red. 
Her  face  was  calm  and  sad  as  fate: 
His  sin,  not  hers,  made  her  too  late. 
Some  think,  unbidden 
She  brought  him,  hidden, 
A  truer  bliss  that  came  back  never 
To  him,  unblest,  who  closed  the  gate. 


CHARITY 


Unarmed  she  goeth ;  yet  her  hands 
Strike  deeper  awe  than  steel-caparison' d  bands. 

No  fatal  hurt  of  foe  she  fears, — 
Veiled,  as  with  mail,  in  mist  of  gentle  tears. 


ii 


'Gainst  her  thou  canst  not  bar  the  door : 
Like  air  she  enters,  where  none  dared  before. 

Even  to  the  rich  she  can  forgive 
Their  regal  selfishness,—  and  let  them  live ! 


97 


HELEN   AT   THE   LOOM 

Helen,  in  her  silent  room, 
Weaves  upon  the  upright  loom ; 
Weaves  a  mantle  rich  and  dark, 
Purpled  over,  deep.     But  mark 
How  she  scatters  o'er  the  wool 
Woven  shapes,  till  it  is  full 
Of  men  that  struggle  close,  complex ; 
Short-clipp'd  steeds  with  wrinkled  necks 
Arching  high  ;  spear,  shield,  and  all 
The  panoply  that  doth  recall 
Mighty  war;  such  war  as  e'en 
For  Helen's  sake  is  waged,  I  ween. 
Purple  is  the  groundwork :  good ! 
All  the  field  is  stained  with  blood  — 
Blood  poured  out  for  Helen's  sake; 
(Thread,  run  on ;  and  shuttle,  shake  ! ) 
But  the  shapes  of  men  that  pass 
Are  as  ghosts  within  a  glass, 
Woven  with  whiteness  of  the  swan, 
Pale,  sad  memories,  gleaming  wan 
98 


HELEN  AT   THE  LOOM  99 

From  the  garment's  purple  fold 
Where  Troy's  tale  is  twined  and  told. 
Well  may  Helen,  as  with  tender 
Touch  of  rosy  fingers  slender 
She  doth  knit  the  story  in 
Of  Troy's  sorrow  and  her  sin, 
Feel  sharp  filaments  of  pain 
Reeled  off  with  the  well-spun  skein, 
And  faint  blood-stains  on  her  hands 
From  the  shifting,  sanguine  strands. 

Gently,  sweetly  she  doth  sorrow: 
What  has  been  must  be  to-morrow ; 
Meekly  to  her  fate  she  bows. 
Heavenly  beauties  still  will  rouse 
Strife  and  savagery  in  men : 
Shall  the  lucid  heavens,  then, 
Lose  their  high  serenity, 
Sorrowing  over  what  must  be  ? 
If  she  taketh  to  her  shame, 
Lo,  they  give  her  not  the  blame, — 
Priam's  wisest  counselors, 
Aged  men,  not  loving  wars. 
When  she  goes  forth,  clad  in  white, 
Day-cloud  touched  by  first  moonlight, 


ioo  HELEN  AT   THE  LOOM 

With  her  fair  hair,  amber-hued 

As  vapor  by  the  moon  imbued 

With  burning  brown,  that  round  her  clings, 

See,  she  sudden  silence  brings 

On  the  gloomy  whisperers 

Who  would  make  the  wrong  all  hers. 

So,  Helen,  in  thy  silent  room, 

Labor  at  the  storied  loom; 

(Thread,  run  on;  and  shuttle,  shake!) 

Let  thy  aching  sorrow  make 

Something  strangely  beautiful 

Of  this  fabric;  since  the  wool 

Comes  so  tinted  from  the  Fates, 

Dyed  with  loves,  hopes,  fears,  and  hates. 

Thou  shalt  work  with  subtle  force 

All  thy  deep  shade  of  remorse 

In  the  texture  of  the  weft, 

That  no  stain  on  thee  be  left;  — 

Ay,  false  queen,  shalt  fashion  grief, 

Grief  and  wrong,  to  soft  relief. 

Speed  the  garment!    It  may  chance, 

Long  hereafter,  meet  the  glance, 

Of  OEnone;  when  her  lord, 

Now  thy  Paris,  shall  go  tow'rd 

Ida,  at  his  last  sad  end, 

Seeking  her,  his  early  friend, 


HELEN  AT   THE  LOOM  101 

Who  alone  can  cure  his  ill, 

Of  all  who  love  him,  if  she  will. 

It  were  fitting  she  should  see 

In  that  hour  thine  artistry, 

And  her  husband's  speechless  corse 

In  the  garment  of  remorse ! 

But  take  heed  that  in  thy  work 
Naught  unbeautiful  may  lurk. 
Ah,  how  little  signifies 
Unto  thee  what  fortunes  rise, 
What  others  fall!     Thou  still  shalt  rule, 
Still  shalt  twirl  the  colored  spool. 
Though  thy  yearning  woman's  eyes 
Burn  with  glorious  agonies, 
Pitying  the  waste  and  woe, 
And  the  heroes  falling  low 
In  the  war  around  thee,  here, 
Yet  the  least,  quick-trembling  tear 
'Twixt  thy  lids  shall  dearer  be 
Than  life,  to  friend  or  enemy. 

There  are  people  on  the  earth 
Doomed  with  doom  of  too  great  worth. 
Look  on  Helen  not  with  hate, 
Therefore,  but  compassionate. 


102  HELEN  AT  THE  LOOM 

If  she  suffer  not  too  much, 

Seldom  does  she  feel  the  touch 

Of  that  fresh,  auroral  joy 

Lighter  spirits  may  decoy 

To  their  pure  and  sunny  lives. 

Heavy  honey  't  is  she  hives. 

To  her  sweet  but  burdened  soul 

All  that  here  she  may  control — 

What  of  bitter  memories, 

What  of  coming  fate's  surmise, 

Paris'  passion,  distant  din 

Of  the  war  now  drifting  in 

To  her  quiet — idle  seems; 

Idle  as  the  lazy  gleams 

Of  some  stilly  water's  reach, 

Seen  from  where  broad  vine-leaves  pleach 

A  heavy  arch;  and,  looking  through, 

Far  away  the  doubtful  blue 

Glimmers,  on  a  drowsy  day, 

Crowded  with  the  sun's  rich  gray;  — 

As  she  stands  within  her  room, 

Weaving,  weaving  at  the  loom. 


THE    CASKET   OF   OPALS 


Deep,  smoldering  colors  of  the  land  and  sea 
Burn  in  these  stones,  that,  by  some  mystery, 
Wrap  fire  in  sleep  and  never  are  consumed. 
Scarlet  of  daybreak,  sunset  gleams  half  spent 
In  thick  white  cloud;  pale  moons  that  may  have 

lent 

Light  to  love's  grieving;  rose-illumined  snows, 
And  veins  of  gold  no  mine  depth  ever  gloomed ; 
All  these,  and  green  of  thin-edged  waves,  are  there. 
I  think  a  tide  of  feeling  through  them  flows 
With  blush  and  pallor,  as  if  some  being  of  air, — 
Some  soul  once  human, —  wandering,  in  the  snare 
Of  passion  had  been  caught,  and  henceforth 

doomed 
In  misty  crystal  here  to  lie  entombed. 

And  so  it  is,  indeed.     Here  prisoned  sleep 
The  ardors  and  the  moods  and  all  the  pain 
That  once  within  a  man's  heart  throbbed.     He 
gave 

103 


104  THE    CASKET  OF  OPALS 

These  opals  to  the  woman  whom  he  loved; 
And  now,  like  glinting  sunbeams  through  the  rain, 
The  rays  of  thought  that  through  his  spirit  moved 
Leap  out  from  these  mysterious  forms  again. 

The  colors  of  the  jewels  laugh  and  weep 

As  with  his  very  voice.     In  them  the  wave 

Of  sorrow  and  joy  that,  with   a  changing  sweep, 

Bore  him  to  misery  or  else  made  him  blest 

Still  surges  in  melodious,  wild  unrest. 

So  when  each  gem  in  place  I  touch  and  take, 

It  murmurs  what  he  thought  or  what  he  spake. 


FIRST  OPAL 

My  heart  is  like  an  opal 
Made  to  lie  upon  your  breast 
In  dreams  of  ardor,  clouded  o'er 
By  endless  joy's  unrest. 

And  forever  it  shall  haunt  you 
With  its  mystic,  changing  ray : 
Its  light  shall  live  when  we  lie  dead, 
With  hearts  at  the  heart  of  day ! 


THE   CASKET  OF  OPALS  105 

SECOND    OPAL 

If,  from  a  careless  hold, 

One  gem  of  these  should  fall, 
No  power  of  art  or  gold 

Its  wholeness  could  recall : 
The  lustrous  wonder  dies 

In  gleams  of  irised  rain, 
As  light  fades  out  from  the  eyes 

When  a  soul  is  crushed  by  pain. 
Take  heed  that  from  your  hold 

My  love  you  do  not  cast : 
Dim,  shattered,  vapor-cold  — 

That  day  would  be  its  last. 


THIRD    OPAL 

He  won  her  love ;  and  so  this  opal  sings 
With  all  its  tints  in  maze,  that  seem  to  quake 
And  leap  in  light,  as  if  its  heart  would  break  : 

Gleam  of  the  sea, 

Translucent  air, 

Where  every  leaf  alive  with  glee 


io6  THE   CASKET  OF  OPALS 

Glows  in  the  sun  without  shadow  of  grief — 

You  speak  of  spring, 

When  earth  takes  wing 

And  sunlight,  sunlight  is  everywhere! 

Radiant  life, 

Face  so  fair  — 

Crowned  with  the  gracious  glory  of  wife  — 

Your  glance  lights  all  this  happy  day, 

Your  tender  glow 

And  murmurs  low 

Make  miracle,  miracle,  everywhere. 

Earth  takes  wing 

With  birds — do  I  care 

Whether  of  sorrow  or  joy  they  sing  ? 

No ;  for  they  make  not  my  life  nor  destroy ! 

My  soul  awakes 

At  a  smile  that  breaks 

In  sun;  and  sunlight  is  everywhere! 

in 

Then   dawned  a  mood  of  musing  thoughtful- 
ness  ; 
As  if  he  doubted  whether  he  could  bless 


THE   CASKET  OF  OPALS  107 

Her  wayward  spirit,  through  each  fickle  hour, 
With  love's  serenity  of  flawless  power, 
Or  she  remain  a  -vision,  as  when  first 
She  came  to  soothe  his  fancy  all  athirst. 


B'OURTH    OPAL 

We  were  alone:  the  perfumed  night, 

Moonlighted,  like  a  flower 
Grew  round  us  and  exhaled  delight 

To  bless  that  one  sweet  hour. 

You  stood  where,  'mid  the  white  and  gold, 
The  rose-fire  through  the  gloom 

Touched  hair  and  cheek  and  garment's  fold 
With  soft,  ethereal  bloom. 

And  when  the  vision  seemed  to  swerve, 
'T  was  but  the  flickering  shine 

That  gave  new  grace,  a  lovelier  curve, 
To  every  dream-like  line. 

O  perfect  vision !     Form  and  face 
Of  womanhood  complete ! 


108  THE   CASKET  OF  OPALS 

O  rare  ideal  to  embrace 

And  hold,  from  head  to  feet! 

Could  I  so  hold  you  ever — could 
Your  eye  still  catch  the  glow 

Of  mine — it  were  an  endless  good: 
Together  we  should  grow 

One  perfect  picture  of  our  love !  .  . 

Alas,  the  embers  old 
Fell,  and  the  moonlight  fell,  above- 

Dim,  shattered,  vapor-cold. 


IV 

What  ill  befell  these  lovers  ?     Shall  I  say  ? 

What  tragedy  of  petty  care  and  sorrow? 
Ye  all  know,  who  have  lived  and  loved :  if  nay, 

Then  those  will  ktww  who  live  and  love  to 
morrow. 
But  here  at  least  is  what  this  opal  said, 

The  fifth  in  number :  and  the  next  two  bore 
My  fancy  toward  that  dim  world  of  the  dead, 

Where    waiting   spirits    muse   the  past  life 
o'er  : 


THE   CASKET  OF  OPALS  109 

FIFTH   OPAL 

I  dreamed  my  kisses  on  your  hair 
Turned  into  roses.     Circling  bloom 
Crowned  the  loose-lifted  tresses  there. 
"  O  Love,"  I  cried,  "  forever 
Dwell  wreathed,  and  perfume-haunted 
By  my  heart's  deep  honey-breath  !  " 
But  even  as  I  bending  looked,  I  saw 
The  roses  were  not;  and,  instead,  there  lay 
Pale,  feathered  flakes  and  scentless 
Ashes  upon  your  hair! 


SIXTH    OPAL 

The  love  I  gave,  the  love  I  gave, 
Wherewith  I  sought  to  win  you  — 

Ah,  long  and  close  to  you  it  clave 
With  life  and  soul  and  sinew! 

My  gentleness  with  scorn  you  cursed : 
You  knew  not  what  I  gave. 

The  strongest  man  may  die  of  thirst : 
My  love  is  in  its  grave! 


I io  THE   CASKET  OF  OPALS 

SEVENTH   OPAL 

You  say  these  jewels  were  accurst  — 

With  evil  omen  fraught. 
You  should  have  known  it  from  the  first! 

This  was  the  truth  they  taught: 

No  treasured  thing  in  heaven  or  earth 

Holds  potency  more  weird 
Than  our  hearts  hold,  that  throb  from  birth 

With  wavering  flames  insphered. 

And  when  from  me  the  gems  you  took, 

On  that  strange  April  day, 
My  nature,  too,  I  gave,  that  shook 

With  passion's  fateful  play. 

The  mingled  fate  my  love  should  give 
In  these  mute  emblems  shone, 

That  more  intensely  burn  and  live — 
While  I  am  turned  to  stone. 


Listen  now  to  what  is  said 
By  the  eighth  opal,  flashing  red 


THE   CASKET  OF  OPALS  m 

And  pale,  by  turns,  with  every  breath  — 
The  voice  of  the  lover  after  death. 


EIGHTH    OPAL 

I  did  not  know  before 

That  we  dead  could  rise  and  walk; 
That  our  voices,  as  of  yore, 

Would  blend  in  gentle  talk. 

I  did  not  know  her  eyes 

Would  so  haunt  mine  after  death, 
Or  that  she  could  hear  my  sighs, 

Low  as  the  harp-string's  breath. 

But,  ah,  last  night  we  met! 

From  our  stilly  trance  we  rose, 
Thrilled  with  all  the  old  regret— 

The  grieving  that  God  knows. 

She  asked :  "Am  I  forgiven  ?  " — 
"And  dost  thou  forgive  ?  "  I  said, 
Ah  !  how  long  for  joy  we  'd  striven ! 
But  now  our  hearts  were  dead. 


112  THE  CASKET  OF  OPALS 

Alas,  for  the  lips  I  kissed 

And  the  sweet  hope,  long  ago ! 

On  her  grave  chill  hangs  the  mist; 
On  mine,  white  lies  the  snow. 


VI 

Hearkening  still,  I  hear  this  strain 
From  the  ninth  opal's  varied  vein  : 

NINTH    OPAL 

In  the  mountains  of  Mexico, 
Where  the  barren  volcanoes  throw 
Their  fierce  peaks  high  to  the  sky, 
With  the  strength  of  a  tawny  brute 
That  sees  heaven  but  to  defy, 
And  the  soft,  white  hand  of  the  snow 
Touches  and  makes  them  mute, — 

Firm  in  the  clasp  of  the  ground 
The  opal  is  found. 
By  the  struggle  of  frost  and  fire 
Created,  yet  caught  in  a  spell 


THE   CASKET  OF  OPALS  113 

From  which  only  human  desire 
Can  free  it,  what  passion  profound 
In  its  dim,  sweet  bosom  may  dwell ! 

So  was  it  with  us,  I  think, 

Whose  souls  were  formed  on  the  brink 

Of  a  crater,  where  rain  and  flame 

Had  mingled  and  crystallized. 

One  venturous  day  Love  came; 

Found  us;  and  bound  with  a  link 

Of  gold  the  jewels  he  prized. 

The  agonies  old  of  the  earth, 

Its  plenitude  and  its  dearth, 

The  torrents  of  flame  and  of  tears, 

All  these  in  our  souls  were  inborn. 

And  we  must  endure  through  the  years 

The  glory  and  burden  of  birth 

That  filled  us  with  fire  of  the  morn. 

Let  the  diamond  lie  in  its  mine; 
Let  ruby  and  topaz  shine; 
The  beryl  sleep,  and  the  emerald  keep 
Its  sunned-leaf  green !     We  know 
The  joy  of  sufferings  deep 


U4  THE   CASKET  OF   OPALS 

That  blend  with  a  love  divine, 

And  the  hidden  warmth  of  the  snow ! 


TENTH    OPAL 

Colors  that  tremble  and  perish, 

Atoms  that  follow  the  law, 
You  mirror  the  truth  which  we  cherish, 

You  mirror  the  spirit  we  saw. 
Glow  of  the  daybreak  tender, 

Flushed  with  an  opaline  gleam, 
And  passionate  sunset-splendor — 

Ye  both  but  embody  a  dream. 
Visions  of  cloud-hidden  glory 

Breaking  from  sources  of  light 
Mimic  the  mist  of  life's  story. 

Mingled  of  scarlet  and  white. 
Sunset-clouds  iridescent, 

Opals,  and  mists  of  the  day, 
Are  thrilled  alike  with  the  crescent 

Delight  of  a  deathless  ray 
Shot  through  the  hesitant  trouble 

Of  particles  floating  in  space, 
And  touching  each  wandering  bubble 

With  tints  of  a  rainbowed  grace. 


THE   CASKET  OF  OPALS  115 

So  through  the  veil  of  emotion 

Trembles  the  light  of  the  truth ; 
And  so  may  the  light  of  devotion 

Glorify  life  —  age  and  youth. 
Sufferings,  —  pangs  that  seem  cruel,— 

These  are  but  atoms  adrift : 
The  light  streams  through,  and  a  jewel 

Is  formed  for  us,  Heaven's  own  gift! 


LOVE   THAT    LIVES 

Dear  face  —  bright,  glinting  hair; 

Dear  life,  whose  heart  is  mine- 
The  thought  of  you  is  prayer, 

The  love  of  you  divine. 

In  starlight,  or  in  rain ; 

In  the  sunset's  shrouded  glow ; 
Ever,  with  joy  or  pain, 

To  you  my  quick  thoughts  go 

Like  winds  or  clouds,  that  fleet 
Across  the  hungry  space 

Between,  and  find  you,  sweet, 
Where  life  again  wins  grace. 

Now,  as  in  that  once  young 
Year  that  so  softly  drew 

My  heart  to  where  it  clung, 
I  long  for,  gladden  in  you. 

n6 


LOVE    THAT  LIVES  117 

And  when  in  the  silent  hours 
I  whisper  your  sacred  name, 

Like  an  altar-fire  it  showers 
My  blood  with  fragrant  flame  ! 

Perished  is  all  that  grieves ; 

And  lo,  our  old-new  joys 
Are  gathered  as  in  sheaves, 

Held  in  love's  equipoise. 

Ours  is  the  love  that  lives ; 

Its  springtime  blossoms  blow 
'Mid  the  fruit  that  autumn  gives, 

And  its  life  outlasts  the  snow. 


IV 


BLUEBIRD'S   GREETING 

Over  the  mossy  walls, 

Above  the  slumbering  fields 

Where  yet  the  ground  no  fruitage  yields, 

Save  as  the  sunlight  falls 

In  dreams  of  harvest-yellow, 

What  voice  remembered  calls, — 

So  bubbling  fresh,  so  soft  and  mellow? 

A  darting,  azure-feathered  arrow 
From  some  lithe  sapling's  bow-curve,  fleet 
The  bluebird,  springing  light  and  narrow, 
Sings  in  flight,  with  gurglings  sweet : 

"  Out  of  the  South  I  wing, 
Blown  on  the  breath  of  Spring : 
The  little  faltering  song 
That  in  my  beak  I  bring 
Some  maiden  shall  catch  and  sing, 
Filling  it  with  the  longing 
And  the  blithe,   unfettered  thronging 
Of  her  spirit's  blossoming. 


122  BLUEBIRD'S  GREETING 

"  Warbling  along 
In  the  sunny  weather, 
Float,  my  notes, 
Through  the  sunny  motes, 
Falling  light  as  a  feather ! 
Flit,  flit,  o'er  the  fertile  land 
'Mid  hovering  insects'  hums ; 
Fall  into  the  sower's  hand : 
Then,  when  his  harvest  comes, 
The  seed   and   the   song  shall  have  flowered 
together. 

"  From  the  Coosa  and  Altamaha, 
With  a  thought  of  the  dim  blue  Gulf; 
From  the  Roanoke  and  Kanawha ; 
From  the  musical  Southern  rivers, 
O'er  the  land  where  the  fierce  war-wolf 
Lies  slain  and  buried  in  flowers; 
I  come  to  your  chill,  sad  hours 
And  the  woods  where  the  sunlight  shivers. 
I  come  like  an  echo :  '  Awake ! ' 
I  answer  the  sky  and  the  lake 
And  the  clear,  cool  color  that  quivers 
In  all  your  azure  rills. 
I  come  to  your  wan,  bleak  hills 


BLUEBIRD'S  GREETING  123 

For  a  greeting  that  rises  dearer, 
To  homely  hearts  draws  me  nearer 
Than  the  warmth  of  the  rice-fields  or  wealth 
of  the  ranches. 

"  I  will  charm  away  your  sorrow, 
For  I  sing  of  the  dewy  morrow : 
My  melody  sways  like  the  branches 
My  light  feet  set  astir: 
I  bring  to  the  old,  as  I  hover, 
The  days  and  the  joys  that  were, 
And  hope  to  the  waiting  lover! 
Then,  take  my  note  and  sing, 
Filling  it  with  the  longing 
And  the  blithe,  unfettered  thronging 
Of  your  spirit's  blossoming  !  " 

Not  long  that  music  lingers: 

Like  the  breath  of  forgotten  singers 

It  flies,— or  like  the  March-cloud's  shadow 

That  sweeps  with  its  wing  the  faded  meadow 

Not  long !     And  yet  thy  fleeting, 

Thy  tender,  flute-toned  greeting, 

O  bluebird,  wakes  an  answer  that  remains 

The  purest  chord  in  all  the  year's  refrains. 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE   VOID 

I  warn,  like  the  one  drop  of  rain 
On  your  face,  ere  the  storm; 
Or  tremble  in  whispered  refrain 

With  your  blood,  beating  warm. 
I  am  the  presence  that  ever 
Bafrles  your  touch's  endeavor, — 
Gone  like  the  glimmer  of  dust 

Dispersed  by  a  gust. 
I  am  the  absence  that  taunts  you, 
The  fancy  that  haunts  you; 
The  ever  unsatisfied  guess 
That,  questioning  emptiness, 
Wins  a  sigh  for  reply. 

Nay;  nothing  am  I, 

But  the  flight  of  a  breath  — 
For  I  am  Death! 


124 


"O   WHOLESOME    DEATH" 

O  wholesome  Death,  thy  sombre  funeral-car 
Looms  ever  dimly  on  the  lengthening  way 
Of  life ;  while,  lengthening  still,  in  sad  array, 
My  deeds  in  long  procession  go,  that  are 
As  mourners  of  the  man  they  helped  to  mar. 
I  see  it  all  in  dreams,  such  as  waylay 
The  wandering  fancy  when  the  solid  day 
Has  fallen  in  smoldering  ruins,  and  night's  star, 
Aloft  there,  with  its  steady  point  of  light 

Mastering  the  eye,  has  wrapped  the  brain  in 

sleep. 
Ah,  when  I  die,  and  planets  hold  their  flight 

Above  my  grave,  still  let  my  spirit  keep 
Sometimes  its  vigil  of  divine  remorse, 
'  Midst  pity,  praise,  or  blame  heaped  o  'er  my 
corse ! 


125 


INCANTATION 

When  the  leaves,  by  thousands  thinned, 
A  thousand  times  have  whirled  in  the  wind, 
And  the  moon,  with  hollow  cheek, 
Staring  from  her  hollow  height, 
Consolation  seems  to  seek 
From  the  dim,  reechoing  night; 
And  the  fog-streaks  dead  and  white 
Lie  like  ghosts  of  lost  delight 
O'er  highest  earth  and  lowest  sky; 
Then,  Autumn,  work  thy  witchery ! 

Strew  the  ground  with  poppy-seeds, 
And  let  my  bed  be  hung  with  weeds, 
Growing  gaunt  and  rank  and  tall, 
Drooping  o'er  me  like  a  pall. 
Send  thy  stealthy,  white-eyed  mist 
Across  my  brow  to  turn  and  twist 
126 


INCANTA  TWN  1 2  7 

Fold  on  fold,  and  leave  me  blind 

To  all  save  visions  in  the  mind. 

Then,  in  the  depth  of  rain-fed  streams 

I  shall  slumber,  and  in  dreams 

Slide  through  some  long  glen  that  burns 

With  a  crust  of  blood-red  ferns 

And  brown-withered  wings  of  brake 

Like  a  burning  lava-lake;  — 

So,  urged  to  fearful,  faster  flow 

By  the  awful    gasp,   "  Hahk  !    hahk !  "  of  the 

crow, 

Shall  pass  by  many  a  haunted  rood 
Of  the  nutty,  odorous  wood; 
Or,  where  the  hemlocks  lean  and  loom, 
Shall  fill  my  heart  with  bitter  gloom; 
Till,  lured  by  light,  reflected  cloud, 
I  burst  aloft  my  watery  shroud, 
And  upward  through  the  ether  sail 
Far  above  the  shrill  wind's  wail;  — 
But,  falling  thence,  my  soul  involve 
With  the  dust  dead  flowers  dissolve; 
And,  gliding  out  at  last  to  sea, 
Lulled  to  a  long  tranquillity, 
The  perfect  poise  of  seasons  keep 
With  the  tides  that  rest  at  neap. 


1 28  INC  A  NT  A  TION 

So  must  be  fulfilled  the  rite 

That  giveth  me  the  dead  year's  might; 

And  at  dawn  I  shall  arise 

A  spirit,  though  with  human  eyes, 

A  human  form  and  human  face ; 

And  where'er  I  go  or  stay, 

There  the  summer's  perished  grace 

Shall  be  with  me,  night  and  day. 


FAMINE    AND    HARVEST 
[PLYMOUTH  PLANTATION:  1622] 

The  strong  and  the  tender, 
The  young  and  the  old, 

Unto  Death  we  must  render:— 
Our  silver,  our  gold. 

To  break  their  long  sleeping 
No  voice  may  avail : 

They  hear  not  our  weeping — 
Our  famished  love's  wail. 

Yea,  those  whom  we  cherish 
Depart,  day  by  day. 

Soon  we,  too,  shall  perish 
And  crumble  to  clay. 

And  the  vine  and  the  berry 
Above  us  will  bloom ; 
129 


I3o  FAMINE  AND  HARVEST 

The  wind  shall  make  merry 
While  we  lie  in  gloom. 

Fear  not !     Though  thou  starvest, 

Provision  is  made : 
God  gathers  His  harvest 

When  our  hopes  fade! 


THE   CHILD'S   WISH    GRANTED 

Do  you  remember,  my  sweet,  absent  son, 

How  in  the  soft  June  days  forever  done 

You  loved  the  heavens  so  warm  and  clear  and 

high; 

And  when  I  lifted  you,  soft  came  your  cry,— 
"  Put  me  'way  up  —  'way,  'way  up  in  blue  sky"? 

I  laughed  and  said  I  could  not;— set  you  down, 
Your  gray  eyes  wonder-filled  beneath  that  crown 
Of  bright  hair  gladdening  me  as  you  raced  by. 
Another  Father  now,  more  strong  than  I, 
Has  borne  you  voiceless  to  your  dear  blue  sky. 


THE   FLOWN   SOUL 

(FRANCIS  HAWTHORNE  LATHROP) 

FEBRUARY  6,   1 88 1 

Come  not  again!  I  dwell  with  you 
Above  the  realm  of  frost  and  dew, 
Of  pain  and  fire,  and  growth  to  death. 
I  dwell  with  you  where  never  breath 
Is  drawn,  but  fragrance  vital  flows 
From  life  to  life,  even  as  a  rose 
Unseen  pours  sweetness  through  each  vein 
And  from  the  air  distills  again. 
You  are  my  rose  unseen;  we  live 
Where  each  to  other  joy  may  give 
In  ways  untold,  by  means  unknown 
And  secret  as  the  magnet-stone. 

For  which  of  us,  indeed,  is  dead  ? 
No  more  I  lean  to  kiss  your  head  — 
The  gold-red  hair  so  thick  upon  it; 
Joy  feels  no  more  the  touch  that  won  it 
132 


THE  FLOWN  SOUL  133 

When  o'er  my  brow  your  pearl-cool  palm 
In  tenderness  so  childish,  calm, 
Crept  softly,  once.     Yet,  see,  my  arm 
Is  strong,  and  still  my  blood  runs  warm. 
I  still  can  work,  and  think  and  weep. 
But  all  this  show  of  life  I  keep 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  your  shine, 
Flicker  of  your  fire,  husk  of  your  vine ; 
Therefore,  you  are  not  dead,  nor  I 
Who  hear  your  laughter's  minstrelsy. 
Among  the  stars  your  feet  are  set; 
Your  little  feet  are  dancing  yet 
Their  rhythmic  beat,  as  when  on  earth. 
So  swift,  so  slight  are  death  and  birth ! 

Come  not  again,  dear  child.     If  thou 
By  any  chance  couldst  break  that  vow 
Of  silence  at  thy  last  hour  made; 
If  to  this  grim  life  unafraid 
Thou  couldst  return,  and  melt  the  frost 
Wherein  thy  bright  limbs'  power  was  lost; 
Still  would  I  whisper  —  since  so  fair 
This  silent  comradeship  we  share — 
Yes,  whisper  'mid  the  unbidden  rain 
Of  tears :  "  Come  not,  come  not  again !  " 


SUNSET   AND   SHORE 

Birds  that  like  vanishing  visions  go  winging, 
White,  white  in  the  flame  of  the  sunset's  burning, 

Fly  with  the  wild  spray  the  billows  are  flinging, 
Blend,  blend  with  the  nightfall,  and  fade,  un- 
returning ! 

Fire  of  the  heaven,  whose  splendor  all-glowing 

Soon,  soon  shall  end,  and  in  darkness  must  perish  ; 
Sea-bird  and  flame-wreath  and  foam  lightly  blow 
ing;— 

Soon,  soon  tho'  we  lose  you,  your  beauty  we 
cherish. 

Visions  may  vanish,  the  sweetest,  the  dearest; 

Hush'd,  hush'd  be  the  voice  of  love's  echo  re 
plying; 
Spirits  may  leave  us  that  clung  to  us  nearest:  — 

Love,  love,  only  love  dwells  with  us  undying ! 


THE   PHCEBE-BIRD 

(A  REPLY) 

Yes,  I  was  wrong  about  the  phoebe-bird. 
Two  songs  it  has,  and  both  of  them  I  've  heard : 
I  did  not  know  those  strains  of  joy  and  sorrow 
Came  from   one  throat,  or   that  each,  note  could 

borrow 

Strength  from  the  other,  making  one  more  brave 
And  one  as  sad  as  rain-drops  on  a  grave. 

But  thus  it  is.     Two  songs  have  men  and  maidens : 
One  is  for  hey-day,  one  is  sorrow's  cadence. 
Our  voices  vary  with  the  changing  seasons 
Of  life's  long  year,  for  deep  and  natural  reasons. 
Therefore  despair  not.      Think  not    you   have  al 
tered, 

If,  at  some  time,  the  gayer  note  has  faltered. 
We  are  as  God  has  made  us.     Gladness,  pain, 
Delight  and  death,  and  moods  of  bliss  or  bane, 
135 


136  THE  PHCEBE-BIRD 

With  love  and  hate,  or  good  and  evil — all, 
At  separate  times,  in  separate  accents  call; 
Yet  't  is  the  same  heart-throb  within  the  breast 
That  gives  an  impulse  to  our  worst  and  best. 
I  doubt  not  when  our  earthly  cries  are  ended, 
The  Listener  finds  them  in  one  music  blended. 


A   STRONG   CITY 

For  them  that  hope  in  Thee.  .  .  .  Thou  shalt  hide 
them  in  the  secret  of  Thy  face,  from  the  disturbance  of  men. 

Thou  shalt  protect  them  in  Thy  tabernacle  from  the  contra 
diction  of  tongues. 

Blessed  be  the  Lord,  for  He  hath  shewn  His  wonderful 
mercy  to  me  in  a  fortified  city.  — Psalm  xxx. 

Beauty  and  splendor  were  on  every  hand: 
Yet   strangely  crawled    dark    shadows    down    the 

lanes, 

Twisting  across  the  fields,  like  dragon-shapes 
That  smote  the  air  with  blackness,  and  devoured 
The  life  of  light,  and  choked  the  smiling  world 
Till  it  grew  livid  with  a  sudden  age — 
The  death  of  hope. 

O  squandered  happiness ; 

Vain  dust  of  misery  powdering  life's  fresh  flower ! 
The  sky  was  holy,  but  the  earth  was  not. 

Men  ruled,  but  ruled  in  vain ;  since  wretchedness 
Of  soul  and  body,  for  the  mass  of  men, 
137 


138  A    STRONG   CITY 

Made  them  like  dead  leaves  in  an  idle  drift 
Around  the  plough  of  progress  as  it  drove 
Sharp  through  the  glebe  of  modern  days,  to  plant 
A  civilized  world.  Ay ;  civilized — but  not  Christian ! 

Civilization  is  a  clarion  voice 
Crying  in  the  wilderness;  a  prophet- word 
Still  unfulfilled.     And  lo,  along  the  ways 
Crowded  with  nations,  there  arose  a  strife; 
Disturbance  of  men;  tongues  contradicting  tongues ; 
Madness  of  noise,  that  scattered  multitudes; 
A  trample  of  blind  feet,  beneath  whose  tread 
Truth's  bloom  shrank  withered;    while   incessant 

mouths 
Howled  "  Progress !  Change !  " —  as  though  all 

moods  of  change 
Were  fiats  of  truth  eternal. 

'Mid  the  din 

Two  pilgrims,  faring  forward,   saw  the  light 
In  a  strong  city,  fortified,  and  moved 
Patiently  thither.     "  All  your  steps  are  vain," 
Cried  scoffers.     "There  is  mercy  in  the  world; 
But  chiefly  mercy  of  man  to  man.     For  we 
Are  good.     We  help  our  fellows,  when  we  can. 


A    STRONG   CITY  139 

Our  charity  is  enormous.     Look  at  these 
Long  rolls  of  rich  subscriptions.     We  are  good. 
'T  is  true,  God's  mercy  plays  a  part  in  things; 
But  most  is  left  to  us;  and  we  judge  well. 
Stay  with  us  in  the  field  of  endless  war! 
Here  only  is  health.     Yon  city  fortified 
You  dream  of — why,  its  ramparts  are  as  dust. 
It  gives  no  safety.     One  assaulting  sweep 
Of  our  huge  cohorts  would  annul  its  power — 
Crush  it  in  atoms;  make  it  meaningless." 

The   pilgrims    listened;    but   onward   still    they 

moved. 

They  passed  the  gates ;  they  stood  upon  a  hill 
Enclosed,  but  in  that  strong  enclosure  free! 
Though  earth  opposed,  they  held  the  key  to  heaven. 
On  came  the  turbulent  multitude  in  war, 
Dashing  against  the  city's  walls;  and  swept 
Through  all  the  streets,  and  robbed    and   burned 

and  killed. 

The  walls  were  strong ;  the  gates  were  always  open. 
And  so  the  invader  rioted,  and  was  proud. 
But  sudden,  in  seeming  triumph,  the  enemy  host 
Was  stricken  with  death ;  and  still  the  city  stayed. 
Skyward  the  souls  of  its  defenders  rose, 


140  A   STRONG   CITY 

Returning  soon  in  mist  intangible 
That  flashed  with  radiance  of  half-hidden  swords ; 
And  those  who  still  assaulted — though  they  crept 
Into  the  inmost  vantage-points,  with  craft — 
Fell,  blasted  namelessly  by  this  veiled  flash, 
Even  as  they  shouted  out,  "  The  place  is  ours ! " 

So  those  two  pilgrims  dwelt  there,  fortified 
In  that  strong  city  men  had  thought  so  frail. 
They  died,  and  lived  again.     Fiercest  attack 
Was  as  a  perfumed  breeze  to  them,  which  drew 
Their  souls  still  closer  unto  God.     And  there 
Beauty  and  splendor   bloomed   untouched.      The 

stars 

Spoke  to  them,  bidding  them  be  of  good  cheer, 
Though  hostile  hordes  rushed  over  them  in  blood. 
And  still  the  prayers  of  all  that  people  rose 
As  incense  mingled  with  music  of  their  hearts. 
For  Christ  was  with  them :  angels  were  their  aid. 
What  though  the  enemy  used  their  open  gates  ? 
The  children  of  the  citadel  conquered  all 
Their  conquerors,  smiting  them  with  the  pure  light 
That  shone  in  that  strong  city  fortified. 


THREE   DOVES 

Seaward,  at  morn,  my  doves  flew  free; 
At  eve  they  circled  back  to  me. 
The  first  was  Faith;  the  second,  Hope; 
The  third — the  whitest — Charity. 

Above  the  plunging  surge's  play 
Dream-like  they  hovered,  day  by  day. 
At  last  they  turned,  and  bore  to  me 
Green  signs  of  peace  thro'  nightfall  gray. 

No  shore  forlorn,  no  loveliest  land 
Their  gentle  eyes  had  left  unscanned, 
'Mid  hues  of  twilight-heliotrope 
Or  daybreak  fires  by  heaven-breath  fanned. 

Quick  visions  of  celestial  grace, — 
Hither  they  waft,  from  earth's  broad  space, 
Kind  thoughts  for  all  humanity. 
They  shine  with  radiance  from  God's  face. 
141 


H2  THREE  DOVES 

Ah,  since  my  heart  they  choose  for  home, 

Why  loose  them, — forth  again  to  roam? 

Yet  look :  they  rise  !  with  loftier  scope 

They  wheel  in  flight  toward  heaven's  pure  dome. 

Fly,  messengers  that  find  no  rest 
Save  in  such  toil  as  makes  man  blest ! 
Your  home  is  God's  immensity: 
We  hold  you  but  at  his  behest. 


V 


ARISE,   AMERICAN! 

The  soul  of  a  nation  awaking, — 
High  visions  of  daybreak,  —  I  saw  ; 
A  people  renewed;  the  forsaking 
Of  sin,  and  the  worship  of  law. 

Sing,  pine-tree;  shout,  to  the  hoarser 
Response  of  the  jubilant  sea ! 

Rush,  river,  foam-flecked  like  a  courser; 
Warn  all  who  are  honest  and  free! 

Our  birth-star  beckons  to  trial 
The  faith  of  the  far-fled  years, 

Ere  scorn  was  our  share,  and  denial, 
Or  laughter  for  patriots'  tears. 

And  Faith  shall  come  forth  the  finer, 
From  trampled  thickets  of  fire, 
And  the  orient  open  diviner 

Before  her,  the  heaven  rise  higher. 

145 


'46  ARISE,  AMERICAN! 

O  deep,  sweet  eyes,  but  severer 
Than  steel !    See  you  yet,  where  he  comes— 
Our  hero?     Bend  your  glance  nearer; 
Speak,  Faith!     For,  as  wakening  drums, 

Your  voice  shall  set  his  blood  stirring; 
His  heart  shall  grow  strong  like  the  main 
When  the  rowelled  winds  are  spurring, 
And  the  broad  tides  landward  strain. 

O  hero,  art  thou  among  us? 
O  helper,  hidest  thou,  still  ? 

Why  hast  thou  no  anthem  sung  us, 
Why  workest  thou  not  our  will  ? 

For  a  smirk  of  the  face,  or  a  favor, 

Still  shelters  the  cheat  where  he  crawls; 
And  the  truth  we  began  with  needs  braver 
Upholders,  and  loftier  walls. 

Too  long  has  the  land's  soul  slumbered 
In  wearying  dreams  of  gain, 
With  prosperous  falsity  cumbered 
And  dulled  with  bribes,  as  a  bane. 


ARISE,  AMERICAN!  147 

Yes,  cunning  is  civilized  evil, 

And  crafty  the  gold-baited  snare; 
But  virtue,  in  fiery  upheaval. 
May  cast  fine  device  to  the  air. 

Bring  us  the  simple  and  stalwart 
Purpose  of  earlier  days. 

Come !     Far  better  than  all  were  't  — 
Our  precepts,  our  pride,  and  our  lays  — 

That  the  people  in  spirit  should  tremble 
With  heed  of  the  God-given  Word; 

That  we  cease  from  our  boast,  nor  dissemble, 
But  follow  where  truth's  voice  is  heard. 

Come  to  us,  mountain-dweller, 
Leader,  wherever  thou  art; 

Skilled  from  thy  cradle,  a  queller 
Of  serpents,  and  sound  to  the  heart ! 

Modest  and  mighty  and  tender; 
Man  of  an  iron  mold ; 

Honest,  fine-grained,  our  defender;-^ 
American-souled ! 


THE   NAME   OF   WASHINGTON 

[Read    before    the    Sons    of   the    Revolution,    New-York 
February  22,  1887] 

Sons  of  the  youth  and  the  truth  of  the  nation, 

Ye  that  are  met  to  remember  the  man 
Whose  valor  gave  birth  to  a  people's  salvation, 
Honor  him  now;  set  his  name  in  the  van. 
A  nobleness  to  try  for, 
A  name  to  live  and  die  for — 
The  name  of  Washington. 

Calmly  his  face  shall  look  down  through  the  ages — 

Sweet  yet  severe  with  a  spirit  of  warning; 
Charged  with  the  wisdom  of  saints  and  of  sages ; 
Quick  with  the  light  of  a  life-giving  morning. 
A  majesty  to  try  for, 
A  name  to  live  and  die  for — 
The  name  of  Washington ! 

Though  faction  may  rack  us,  or  party  divide  us, 
And  bitterness  break  the  gold  links  of  our  story, 

148 


THE  NAME   OF   WASHINGTON  149 

Our  father  and  leader  is  ever  beside  us. 

Live,  and  forgive!     But  forget  not  the  glory 
Of  him  whose  height  we  try  for, 
A  name  to  live  and  die  for  — 
The  name  of  Washington ! 

Still  in  his  eyes  shall  be  mirrored  our  fleeting 
Days,  with  the  image  of  days  long  ended; 
Still  shall  those  eyes  give,  immortally,  greeting 
Unto  the  souls  from  his  spirit  descended. 
His  grandeur  we  will  try  for, 
His  name  we  '11  live  and  die  for — 
The  name  of  Washington ! 


GRANT'S   DIRGE 


Ah,  who  shall  sound  the  hero's  funeral  march  ? 
And  what  shall  be  the  music  of  his  dirge  ? 
No  single  voice  may  chant  the  Nation's  grief, 
No  formal  strain  can  give  its  woe  relief. 
The  pent-up  anguish  of  the  loyal  wife, 
The  sobs  of  those  who,  nearest  in  this  life, 
Still  hold  him  closely  in  the  life  beyond;  — 
These  first,  with  threnody  of  memories  fond. 

But  look !  Forth  press  a  myriad  mourners  thronging, 
With  hearts  that  throb  in  sorrow's  exaltation, 

Moved  by  a  strange,  impassioned,  hopeless  longing 
To  serve  him  with  their  love's  last  ministration. 
Make  way !  Make  way,  from  wave-bound  verge 

to  verge 

Of  all  our  land,  that  this  great  multitude 
With  lamentation  proud  albeit  subdued, 
Deep  murmuring  like  the  ocean's  mighty  surge, 

May  pass  beneath  the  heavens'  triumphal  arch ! 

150 


GRANT'S  DIRGE  151 


II 


What  is  the  sound  we  hear? 
Never  the  fall  of  a  tear; 
For  grief  repressed 
In  every  breast 

More  honors  the  man  we  revere. 
Rising  from  East  and  West, 
There  echoes  afar  or  near  — 
From  the  cool,  sad  North  and  the  burning  South  - 
A  sound  long  since  grown  dear, 
When  brave  ranks  faced  the  cannon's  mouth 
And  died  for  a  faith  austere : 
The  tread  of  marching  men, 
A  steady  tramp  of  feet 
That  never  flinched  nor  faltered  when 
The  drums  of  duty  beat. 
With  sable  hats  whose  shade 
Falls  from  the  cord  of  gold 
On  every  time-worn  face; 
With  tattered  flags,  in  black  enrolled, 
Beneath  whose  folds  they  warred  of  old ; 
Forward,  firmly  arrayed, 
With  a  sombre,  martial  grace; 


152  GRANT'S  DIRGE 

So  the  Grand  Army  moves 
Commanded  by  the  dead, 
Following  him  whose  name  it  loves, 
Whose  voice  in  life  its  footsteps  led. 


in 


Those  that  in  the  combat  perished, — 

Hostile  shapes  and  forms  of  friends, — 
Those  we  hated,  those  we  cherished, 

Meet  the  pageant  where  it  ends. 
Flash  of  steel  and  tears  forgiving 

Blend  in  splendor.     Hark,  the  knell! 
Comrades  ghostly  join  the  living — 

Dreaming,  chanting:  "All  is  well." 
They  receive  the  General  sleeping, 

Him  of  spirit  pure  and  large : 
Him  they  draw  into  their  keeping 

Evermore,  in  faithful  charge. 


IV 


Pass  on,  O  steps,  with  your  dead,  sad  note! 
For  a  people's  homage  is  in  the  sound; 


GRANT'S  DIRGE  153 

And  the  even  tread,  in  measured  rote, 
As  a  leader  is  laid  beneath  the  ground, 
Rumors  the  hum  of  a  pilgrim  train 
That   shall   trample  the   earth  as  tramples 

the  rain, 

Seeking  the  door  of  the  hero's  tomb, 
Seeking  him  where  he  lies  low  in  the  gloom, 
Paying  him  tribute  of  worker  and  mage, 
Through  age  on  age ! 


Tall  pine-tree  on  McGregor's  height, 
How  didst  thou  grow  to  such  a  lofty  bearing, 
For  song  of  bird  or  beat  of  breeze  uncaring, 
There  where  thy  shadow  touched  the  dying  brow  ? 
Were  all  thy  sinewy  fibres  shaped  aright  ? 
Was  there  no  flaw  ?  With  what  mysterious  daring 
Didst  thou  put  forth  each  murmuring,  odorous 

bough 

And  trust  it  to  the  frail  support  of  air? 
We  only  know  that  thou  art  now  supreme : 
We  know  not  how  thou  grewest  so  tall  and  fair. 
So  from  the  unnoticed,  humble  earth  arose 


154  GRANTS  DIRGE 

The  sturdy  man  whom  we,  bewailing,  deem 

Worthy  the  wondrous  name  fame's  far  voice  blows. 

And  lo  !  his  ancient  foes 

Rise  up  to  praise  the  plan 

Of  modest  grandeur,  loyal  trust, 

And  generous  power  from  man  to  man, 

That  lifted  him  above  the  formless  dust. 

O  heart  by  kindliness  betrayed, 

O  noble  spirit  snared  and  strayed  — 

Unmatched,  upright  thou  standest  still 

As  that  firm  pine-tree  rooted  on  the  hill! 


VI 

No  paragon  was  he, 
But  moulded  in  the  rough 
With  every  fault  and  scar 
Ingrained,  and  plain  for  all  to  see : 
Even  as  the  rocks  and  mountains  are, 
Common  perhaps,  yet  wrought  of  such  true  stuff 
That  common  nature  in  his  essence  grew 
To  something  which  till  then  it  never  knew; 
Ay,  common  as  a  vast,  refreshing  wind 
That  sweeps  the  continent,  or  as  some  star 


GRANT'S  DIRGE  155 

Which,  'mid  a  million,  shines  out  well-defined: 
With  honest  soul  on  duty  bent, 
A  servant-soldier,  President; 
Meekest  when  crowned  with  victory, 
And  greatest  in  adversity ! 


VII 


A  silent  man  whom,  strangely,  fate 
Made  doubly  silent  ere  he  died, 
His  speechless  spirit  rules  us  still; 
And  that  deep  spell  of  influence  mute, 
The  majesty  of  dauntless  will 
That  wielded  hosts  and  saved  the  State, 
Seems  through  the  mist  our  spirits  yet  to  thrill. 
His  heart  is  with  us!     From  the  root 
Of  toil  and  pain  and  brave  endurance 
Has  sprung  at  last  the  perfect  fruit, 
The  treasure  of  a  rich  assurance 
That  men  who  nobly  work  and  live 
A  greater  gift  than  life  may  give; 
Yielding  a  promise  for  all  time, 
Which  other  men  of  newer  date 
Surely  redeem  in  deeds  'sublime. 


156  GRANT'S  DIRGE 

Forerunner  of  a  valiant  race, 

His  voiceless  spirit  still  reminds  us 

Of  ever-waiting,  silent  duty : 

The  bond  of  faith  wherewith  he  binds  us 

Shall  hold  us  ready  hour  by  hour 

To  serve  the  sacred,  guiding  power 

Whene'er  it  calls,  where'er  it  finds  us, 

With  loyalty  that,  like  a  folded  flower, 

Blooms  at  a  touch  in  proud,  full-circled  beauty. 


VIII 

Like  swelling  river  waves  that  strain, 
Onward  the  people  crowd 
In  serried,  billowing  train. 
And  those  so  slow  to  yield, 
On  many  a  hard  fought  field, 
Muster  together 
Like  a  dark  cloud 
In  summer  weather, 

Whose  threatening  thunders  suddenly  are  stilled,- 
And  all  the  world  is  filled 
With  smiling  rest.     Victory  to  him  was  pain, 
Till  he  had  won  his  enemies  by  love; 
Had  leashed  the  eagle  and  unloosed  the  dove; 


GRANT'S  DIRGE  157 

Setting  on  war's  red  roll  the  argent  seal  of  peace. 
So  here  they  form  their  solid  ranks  again, 
But  in  no  mood  of  hatred  or  disdain. 
They  say :  "  Thou  who  art  fallen  at  last, 
Beleaguered  stealthily,  o'ercome  by  death, 
Thy  conqueror  now  shall  be  magnanimous 
Even  as  thou  wast  to  us. 
But  not  for  thee  can  we  blot  out  the  past: 
We  would  not,  if  we  might,  forget  thy  last 
Great  act  of  war,  that  with  a  gentle  hand 
Brought  back  our  hearts  unto  the  mighty  mother, 
For  whose  defence  and  honor  armed  we  stand. 
We  hail  thee  brother, 
And  so  salute  thy  name  with  holy  breath  ! " 


IX 

Land  of  the  hurricane ! 
Land  of  the  avalanche ! 
Land  of  tempest  and  rain; 
Of  the  Southern  sun  and  of  frozen  peaks; 
Stretching  from  main  to  main;  — 
Land  of  the  cypress-glooms; 
Land  of  devouring  looms; 
Land  of  the  forest  and  ranch;  — 


158  GRANT'S  DIRGE 

Hush  every  sound  to-day 

Save  the  burden  of  swarms  that  assemble 

Their  reverence  dear  to  pay 

Unto  him  who  saved  us  all! 

Ye  masses  that  mourn  with  bended  head, 

Beneath  whose  feet  the  ground  doth  tremble 

With  weight  of  woe  and  a  sacred  dread  — 

Lift  up  the  pall 

That  to  us  shall  remain  as  a  warrior's  banner! 

Gaze  once  more  on  the  fast  closed  eyes; 

Mark  once  the  mouth  that  never  speaks; 

Think  of  the  man  and  his  quiet  manner: 

Weep  if  you  will;  then  go  your  way; 

But  remember  his  face  as  it  looks  to  the  skies, 

And  the  dumb  appeal  wherewith  it  seeks 

To  lead  us  on,  as  one  should  say,  "Arise — 

Go  forth  to  meet  your  country's  noblest  day!" 


Ah,  who  shall  sound  the  hero's  funeral  march  ? 

And  what  shall  be  the  music  of  his  dirge  ? 

Let  generations  sing,  as  they  emerge 
And  pass  beneath  the  heavens'  trumphal  arch  ! 


BATTLE    DAYS 


Veteran  memories  rally  to  muster 

Here  at  the  call  of  the  old  battle  days : 
Cavalry  clatter  and  cannon's  hoarse  bluster: 
All   the   wild   whirl   of  the   fight's   broken 

maze : 
Clangor  of  bugle  and  flashing  of  sabre, 

Smoke-stifled  flags  and  the  howl  of  the  shell, 
With  earth  for  a  rest  place  and   death  for  a 

neighbor, 
And  dreams  of  a  charge  and  the  deep  rebel 

yell. 

Stern  was  our  task  in  the  field  where  the  reap 
ing 
Spared  the  ripe  harvest,  but   laid  our  men 

low: 

Grim  was  the  sorrow  that  held  us  from  weeping : 
Awful  the  rush  of 'the  strife's  ebb  and  flow. 
159 


160  BATTLE  DAYS 

Swift  came  the  silence  —  our  enemy  hiding 

Sudden  retreat  in  the  cloud-muffled  night: 
Swift  as  a  hawk-pounce  our  hill-and-dale  riding; 

Hundreds  on  hundreds  we  caught  in  their 

flight ! 
Hard  and  incessant  the  danger  and  trial, 

Laid  on  our  squadrons,  that  gladly  bore  all, 
Scorning  to  meet  with  delay  or  denial 

The  summons  that  rang  in  the  battle-days' 
call ! 


ii 

Wild  days  that  woke  to  glory  or  despair, 
And  smote  the   coward   soul  with    sudden 

shame, 

But  unto  those  whose  hearts  were  bold  to  dare 
All  things  for  honor  brought   eternal 
fame :  — 

Lost  days,  undying  days! 
With  undiminished  rays 
Here  now  on  us  look  down, 
Illumining  our  crown 
Of  leaves  memorial,  wet  with  tender  dew 
For  those  who  nobly  died 


BATTLE  DAYS  161 

In  fierce  self-sacrifice  of  service  true, 

Rapt  in  pure  fire  of  life-disdaining  pride ; 
Men  of  this  soil,  who  stood 

Firm  for  their  country's  good, 
From  night  to  night,  from  sun  to  sun, 

Till  o'er  the  living  and  the  slain 
A  woful  dawn  that  streamed  with  rain 

Wept  for  their  victory  dearly  won. 


in 

Days  of  the  future,  prophetic  days, — 

Silence  engulfs  the  roar  of  war; 
Yet,   through    all    coming    years,   repeat    the 

praise 
Of  those  leal  comrades  brave,  who  come  no 

more! 
And  when  our  voices  cease, 

Long,  long    renew   the   chant,  the  anthem 

proud, 
Which,  echoing  clear  and  loud 

Through  templed  aisles  of  peace, 
Like  blended  tumults  of  a  joyous  chime, 
Shall  tell  their  valor  to  a  later  time. 


162  BATTLE  DAYS 

Shine  on  this  field ;    and  in  the  eyes  of  men 
Rekindle,  if  the  need  shall  come  again, 
That  answering  light  that  springs 
In    beaconing    splendor    from    the    soul,   and 

brings 
Promise  of  faith  well  kept  and  deed  sublime ! 


KEENAN'S   CHARGE 

[CHANCELLORSVILLE,    MAY,    1863] 


The  sun  had  set; 

The  leaves  with  dew  were  wet: 

Down  fell  a  bloody  dusk 

On  the  woods,  that  second  of  May, 

Where  StonewalPs  corps,  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Tore  through,  with  angry  tusk. 

"  They  Ve  trapped  us,  boys  !  " — 
Rose  from  our  flank  a  voice. 
With  a  rush  of  steel  and  smoke 
On  came  the  rebels  straight, 
Eager  as  love  and  wild  as  hate; 
And  our  line  reeled  and  broke; 

Broke  and  fled. 

No  one  stayed— but  the  dead! 

163 


1 64  KEENAN'S   CHARGE 

With  curses,  shrieks,  and  cries, 

Horses  and  wagons  and  men 

Tumbled  back  through  the  shuddering  glen, 

And  above  us  the  fading  skies. 

There  's  one  hope,  still  — 

Those  batteries  parked  on  the  hill! 

"  Battery,  wheel !  "  ('mid  the  roar) 

"  Pass  pieces ;  fix  prolonge  to  fire 
Retiring.     Trot!"     In  the  panic  dire 
A  bugle  rings  "Trot"  —  and  no  more. 

The  horses  plunged, 

The  cannon  lurched  and  lunged, 

To  join  the  hopeless  rout. 

But  suddenly  rode  a  form 

Calmly  in  front  of  the  human  storm, 

With  a  stern,  commanding  shout : 

"  Align  those  guns !  " 
(We  knew  it  was  Pleasonton's.) 
The  cannoneers  bent  to  obey, 
And  worked  with  a  will  at  his  word: 
And  the  black  guns  moved  as  if  they  had  heard. 
But  ah,  the  dread  delay! 


KEENAN' S   CHARGE  165 

"To  wait  is  crime; 
O  God,  for  ten  minutes'  time!" 
The  General  looked  around. 
There  Keenan  sat,  like  a  stone, 
With  his  three  hundred  horse  alone, 
Less  shaken  than  the  ground. 

"  Major,  your  men  ?  " 

"Are  soldiers,  General."     "Then, 

Charge,  Major !     Do  your  best : 

Hold  the  enemy  back,  at  all  cost, 

Till  my  guns  are  placed; — else  the  army  is  lost. 

You  die  to  save  the  rest ! " 


ii 

By  the  shrouded  gleam  of  the  western  skies, 
Brave  Keenan  looked  into  Pleasonton's  eyes 
For  an  instant  —  clear,  and  cool,  and  still; 
Then,  with  a  smile,  he  said :  "  I  will." 

"  Cavalry,  charge !  "     Not  a  man  of  them  shrank. 
Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 
Rose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath  — 
Rose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 


166  KEENAN'S   CHARGE 

Then    forward    they  sprang,    and    spurred   and 

clashed ; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sash'd ; 
Rode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 
In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow ; 
And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 
Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

With  clank  of  scabbards  and  thunder  of  steeds, 
And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 
And  strong  brown  faces  bravely  pale 
For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail, 
Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 
On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ring'd  with 

flame; 

Rode  in  and  sabred  and  shot — and   fell; 
Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 
And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall, 
In  the  gloom  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 
While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  sabre,  swung 
'Round   his   head,  like    a  halo  there,  luminous 

hung. 


KEENAN'S  CHARGE  167 

Line  after  line,  aye,  whole  platoons, 
Struck  dead  in  their  saddles,  of  brave  dragoons 
By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 
And  into  the  vortex  flung,  trampled  and   torn; 
As  Keenan  fought  with  his   men,  side  by  side. 

So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

But  over  them,  lying  there  shattered  and  mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls  ?  —  'T  is  a  death- salute, 
From  the  cannon  in  place ;  for  heroes,  you  braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain :  the  army  was  saved ! 

Over  them  now  —  year  following  year  — 
Over  their  graves  the  pine-cones  fall, 
And  the  whip-poor-will  chants  his  spectre-call; 
But  they  stir  not  again:  they  raise  no  cheer: 
They  have  ceased.     But  their  glory  shall  never 

cease, 

Nor  their  light  be  quenched  in  the  light  of  peace. 
The  rush  of  their  charge  is  resounding  still 
That  saved  the  army  at  Chancellorsville. 


MARTHY   VIRGINIA'S   HAND 

"  There,  on  the  left !  "  said  the  colonel :  the  battle 

had  shuddered  and  faded  away, 
Wraith   of   a    fiery   enchantment   that    left    only 

ashes  and  blood-sprinkled  clay  — 
"  Ride  to  the  left  and  examine  that  ridge,  where 

the  enemy's  sharpshooters  stood. 
Lord,  how  they  picked  off  our  men,  from   the 

treacherous  vantage-ground  of  the  wood ! 
But  for  their  bullets,  I  '11  bet,  my  batteries  sent   g<5 

them  something  as  good. 
Go  and  explore,  and  report  to  me  then,  and  tell 

me  how  many  we  killed. 

Never  a  wink  shall  I  sleep  till  I  know  our  ven 
geance  was  duly  fulfilled." 

Fiercely  the  orderly  rode  down  the  slope  of  the 

corn-field  —  scarred  and  forlorn, 
Rutted  by  violent  wheels,  and   scathed  by  the 

shot  that  had  plowed  it  in  scorn; 


168 


MARTHY   VIRGINIA'S  HAND  169 

Fiercely,  and   burning  with  wrath    for  the   sight 

of  his  comrades  crushed  at  a  blow, 
Flung    in   broken    shapes    on    the    ground    like 

ruined  memorials  of  woe : 
These  were  the  men  whom  at  daybreak  he  knew, 

but  never  again  could  know. 
Thence  to  the  ridge,  where  roots  outthrust,  and 

twisted  branches  of  trees 
Clutched  the  hill  like  clawing   lions,  firm   their 

prey  to  seize. 

"What  's  your  report?"  —  and  the  grim  colonel 

smiled  when  the  orderly  came  back  at  last. 

t  £   i 

Strangely  the  soldier  paused:  "Well,  they  were 

punished."     And  strange  his  face,  aghast. 
"Yes,  our  fire  told  on  them;  knocked  over  fifty — 

laid  out  in  line  of  parade. 
Brave  fellows,  colonel,  to  stay  as  they  did !     But 

one  I  'most  wish  had  n't  stayed. 
Mortally  wounded,  he  'd  torn  off  his  knapsack; 

and  then  at  the  end  he  prayed  — 
Easy  to  see,  by  his   hands   that   were   clasped ; 

and  the  dull,  dead  fingers  yet  held 
This  little  letter — his  wife's — from  the  knapsack. 

A  pity  those  woods  were  shelled !  " 


1 70  MARTHY   VIRGINIA'S  HAND 

Silent  the  orderly,  watching  with  tears  in  his  eyes :-  :  '' 

as  his  officer  scanned 
Four  short  pages  of  writing.    "  What 's  this,  about  ^uJfZ.' 

'  Marthy  Virginia's  hand '  ?  " 
Swift  from  his  honeymoon  he,  the  dead  soldier, 

had  gone  from  his  bride  to  the  strife; 
Never  they  met  again,  but  she  had  written  him, 

telling  of  that  new  life, 
Born  in  the  daughter,  that  bound  her  still  closer 

and  closer  to  him  as  his  wife. 
Laying   her   baby's    hand   down   on   the   letter,   *  &  w« 

around  it  she  traced  a  rude  line; 
"If  you   would  kiss   the  baby,"  she  wrote,  "you 

must  kiss  this  outline  of  mine." 

There  was  the  shape  of  the  hand  on  the  page,  \ I*' 

with  the  small,  chubby  fingers  outspread. 
"  Marthy   Virginia's   hand,  for   her    pa," — so    the 

words  on  the  little  palm  said. 
Never  a  wink  slept  the   colonel   that  night,  forM*^1 

the  vengeance  so  blindly  fulfilled; 
Never  again  woke  the  old  battle-glow  when  the 

bullets  their  death-note  shrilled. 
Long    ago    ended    the    struggle,    in    union    of  ~30't 

brotherhood  happily  stilled: 


MARTHY   VIRGINIA'S  HAND  171 

Yet  from  that  field  of  Antietam,  in  warning  and 

token  of  love's  command, 
See!  there  is  lifted  the  hand  of  a  baby — Marthy 

Virginia's  hand ! 


GETTYSBURG:    A   BATTLE   ODE 


Victors,  living,  with  laureled  brow, 

And  you  that  sleep  beneath  the  sward! 
Your  song  was  poured  from  cannon  throats: 
It  rang  in  deep-tongued  bugle-notes: 
Your  triumph  came;  you  won  your  crown, 
The  grandeur  of  a  world's  renown. 
But,  in  our  later  lays, 
Full  freighted  with  your  praise, 
Fair  memory  harbors  those  whose  lives,  laid  down 
In  gallant  faith  and  generous  heat, 

Gained  only  sharp  defeat. 

All  are  at  peace,  who  once  so  fiercely  warred: 
Brother  and  brother,  now,  we  chant  a  common  chord. 


For,  if  we  say  God  wills, 
Shall  we  then  idly  deny  Him 
Care  of  each  host  in  the  fight  ? 
172 


GETTYSBURG:  A   BATTLE   ODE  173 

His  thunder  was  here  in  the  hills 
When  the  guns  were  loud  in  July; 
And  the  flash  of  the  musketry's  light 
Was  sped  by  a  ray  from  God's  eye. 
In  its  good  and  its  evil  the  scheme 
Was  framed  with  omnipotent  hand, 
Though  the  battle  of  men  was  a  dream 
That  they  could  but  half  understand. 
Can  the  purpose  of  God  pass  by  him? 
Nay ;  it  was  sure,  and  was  wrought 
Under  inscrutable  powers: 
Bravely  the  two  armies  fought 
And  left  the  land,  that  was  greater  than  they,  still 
theirs  and  ours! 


in 

Lucid,  pure,  and  calm  and  blameless 
Dawned  on  Gettysburg  the  day 

That  should  make  the  spot,  once  fameless, 
Known  to  nations  far  away. 

Birds  were  caroling,  and  farmers 
Gladdened  o'er  their  garnered  hay, 

When  the  clank  of  gathering  armors 


174  GETTYSBURG:   A   BATTLE   ODE 

Broke  the  morning's  peaceful  sway; 
And  the  living  lines  of  foemen 

Drawn  o'er  pasture,  brook,  and  hill, 
Formed  in  figures  weird  of  omen 

That  should  work  with  mystic  will 
Measures  of  a  direful  magic  — 

Shattering,  maiming  —  and  should  fill 
Glades  and  gorges  with  a  tragic 

Madness  of  desire  to  kill. 
Skirmishers  flung  lightly  forward 

Moved  like  scythemen  skilled  to  sweep 
Westward  o'er  the  field  and  nor'ward, 

Death's  first  harvest  there  to  reap. 
You  would  say  the  soft,  white  smoke-puffs 

Were  but  languid  clouds  asleep, 
Here  on  meadows,  there  on  oak-bluffs, 

Fallen  foam  of  Heaven's  blue  deep. 
Yet  that  blossom-white  outbreaking 

Smoke  wove  soon  a  martyr's  shroud. 
Reynolds    fell,  with  soul  unquaking, 

Ardent-eyed  and  open-browed : 
Noble  men  in  humbler  raiment 

Fell  where  shot  their  graves  had  plowed, 
Dying  not  for  paltry  payment : 

Proud  of  home,  of  honor  proud. 


GETTYSBURG:  A   BATTLE   ODE  175 

IV 

Mute  Seminary  there, 

Filled  once  with  resonant  hymn  and  prayer, 
How  your  meek  walls  and  windows  shuddered 

then! 

Though  Doubleday  stemmed  the  flood, 
McPherson's  Wood  and  Willoughby's  Run 

Saw  ere  the  set  of  sun 
The  light  of  the  gospel  of  blood. 
And,  on  the  morrow  again, 
Loud  the  unholy  psalm  of  battle 

Burst  from  the  tortured  Devil's  Den, 
In  cries  of  men  and  musketry  rattle 
Mixed  with  the  helpless  bellow  of  cattle 
Torn  by  artillery,  down  in  the  glen; 
While,  hurtling  through  the  branches 
Of  the  orchard  by  the  road, 
Where  Sickles  and  Birney  were  walled  with  steel, 

Shot  fiery  avalanches 

That  shivered  hope  and  made  the  sturdiest  reel. 
Yet  peach-bloom  bright  as  April  saw 

Blushed  there  anew,  in  blood  that  flowed 
O'er  faces  white  with  death-dealt  awe; 
And  ruddy  flowers  of  warfare  grew7, 


176  GETTYSBURG:   A   BATTLE   ODE 

Though  withering  winds  as  of  the  desert  blew, 
Far  at  the  right  while  Ewell  and  Early, 
Plunging   at   Slocum   and   Wadsworth  and 

Greene, 
Thundered  in  onslaught  consummate  and  surly ; 

Till  trembling  nightfall  crept  between 
And    whispered    of    rest    from    the   heat    of   the 

whelming  strife. 

But  unto  those  forsaken  of  life 
What  has  the  night  to  say  ? 
Silent  beneath  the  moony  sky, 
Crushed  in  a  costly  dew  they  lie : 
Deaf  to  plaint  or  paean,  they:  — 
Freed  from  Earth's  dull  tyranny. 


Wordless  the  night-wind,   funereal  plumes  of  the 

tree-tops  swaying — 
Writhing  and  nodding  anon  at  the  beck  of  the 

unseen  breeze! 

Yet  its  voice  ever  a  murmur  resumes,  as  of  mul 
titudes  praying  : 

Liturgies  lost  in  a  moan  like  the  mourning  of 
far-away  seas. 


GETTYSBURG:  A   BATTLE   ODE  177 

May  then  those  spirits,  set  free,  a  celestial  coun 
cil  obeying, 
Move    in   this   rustling   whisper  here   thro'    the 

dark,  shaken  trees?  — 
Souls  that  are  voices  alone  to  us,  now,  yet  linger, 

returning 
Thrilled  with  a  sweet  reconcilement  and  fervid 

with  speechless  desire? 
Sundered  in  warfare,  immortal  they  meet  now  with 

wonder  and  yearning, 

Dwelling  together  united,  a  rapt,  invisible  choir : 
Hearken  !  They  wail  for  the  living,  whose  passion 

of  battle,  yet  burning, 
Sears  and    enfolds   them  in  coils,   and  consumes, 

like  a  serpent  of  fire  ! 


VI 

Men  of  New  Hampshire,  Pennsylvanians, 

Maine  men,  firm  as  the  rock's  rough  ledge  ! 

Swift  Mississippians,  lithe  Carolinians 
Bursting  over  the  battle's  edge! 

Bold  Indiana  men ;  gallant  Virginians ; 

Jersey  and  Georgia  legions  clashing;  — 


178  GETTYSBURG:   A   BATTLE   ODE 

Pick  of  Connecticut;  quick  Vermonters; 

Louisianians,  madly  dashing;  — 
And,  swooping  still  to  fresh  encounters, 

New- York  myriads,  whirlwind-led!  — 
All  your  furious  forces,  meeting, 

Torn,  entangled,  and  shifting  place, 
Blend  like  wings  of  eagles  beating 

Airy  abysses,  in  angry  embrace. 
Here  in  the  midmost  struggle  combining- 

Flags  immingled  and  weapons  crossed  - 
Still  in  union  your  States  troop  shining: 

Never  a  star  from  the  lustre  is  lost! 


VII 


Once  more  the  sun  deploys  his  rays: 
Third  in  the  trilogy  of  battle-days 
The  awful  Friday  comes: 

A  day  of  dread, 
That  should  have  moved  with  slow,  averted 

head 

And  muffled  feet, 
Knowing  what  streams  of  pure  blood  shed, 


GETTYSBURG:   A   BATTLE   ODE  179 

What  broken  hearts  and  wounded  lives  must 

meet 
Its  pitiless  tread. 

At  dawn,  like  monster  mastiffs  baying, 

Federal  cannon,  with  a  din  affraying, 

Roused  the  old  Stonewall  brigade, 

That,  eagerly  and  undismayed, 

Charged  amain,  to  be  repelled 
After  four  hours'  bitter  fighting, 
Forth  and  back,  with  bayonets  biting; 

Where  in  after  years,  the  wood  — 

Flayed  and  bullet-riddled  —  stood 

A  presence  ghostly,  grim  and  stark, 
With  trees  all  withered,   wasted,  gray, 
The  place  of  combat  night  and  day 

Like  marshaled  skeletons  to  mark. 

Anon,  a  lull:  the  troops  are  spelled. 
No  sound  of  guns  or  drums 
Disturbs  the  air. 

Only  the  insect-chorus  faintly  hums, 

Chirping  around  the  patient,  sleepless  dead 

Scattered,  or  fallen  in  heaps  all  wildly  spread ; 

Forgotten  fragments  left  in  hurried  flight; 
Forms  that,  a  few  hours  since,  were  human 
creatures, 


i8o  GETTYSBURG:  A   BATTLE   ODE 

Now  blasted  of  their  features, 

Or  stamped  with  blank  despair; 
Or  with   dumb  faces  smiling  as  for  gladness, 

Though  stricken  by  utter  blight 
Of  motionless,  inert,  and  hopeless  sadness. 
Fear  you  the  naked  horrors  of  a  war? 
Then  cherish  peace,  and  take  up  arms  no  more. 

For,  if  you  fight,  you  must 

Behold  your  brothers'  dust 

Unpityingly  ground  down 
And  mixed  with  blood  and  powder, 
To  write  the  annals  of  renown 

That  make  a  nation  prouder! 


VIII 


All  is  quiet  till  one  o'clock; 

Then  the  hundred  and  fifty  guns, 
Metal  loaded  with  metal  in  tons, 

Massed  by  Lee,  send  out  their  shock. 
And,  with  a  movement  magnificent, 
Pickett,  the  golden-haired  leader, 
Thousands  and  thousands  flings  onward,  as  if  he  sent 
Merely  a  meek  interceder. 


GETTYSBURG:  A  BATTLE  ODE  181 

Steadily  sure  his  division  advances, 
Gay  as  the  light  on  its  weapons  that  dances. 
Agonized  screams  of  the  shell 
The  doom  that  it  carries  foretell: 
Rifle-balls  whistle,  like  sea-birds  singing; 
Limbs  are  severed,  and  souls  set  winging; 

Yet  Pickett's  warriors  never  waver. 
Show  me  in  all  the  world  anything  braver 
Than  the  bold  sweep  of  his  fearless  battalions, 
Three  half-miles  over  ground  unsheltered 
Up  to  the  cannon,  where  regiments  weltered 
Prone  in  the  batteries'  blast  that  raked 
Swaths  of  men  and,  flame-tongued,  drank 
Their  blood  with  eager  thirst  unslaked. 

Armistead,  Kemper,  and  Pettigrew 
Rush  on  the  Union  men,  rank  against  rank, 
Planting  their  battle-flags  high  on  the  crest. 
Pause  not  the  soldiers,  nor  dream  they  of  rest, 
Till  they  fall  with  their  enemy's  guns  at  the 

breast 

And  the  shriek  in  their  ears  of  the  wounded   ar 
tillery  stallions. 

So  Pickett  charged,  a  man  indued 
With  knightly  power  to  lead  a  multitude 
And  bring  to  fame  the  scarred  surviving  few. 


1 82  GETTYSBURG:   A   BATTLE   ODE 

IX 

In  vain  the  mighty  endeavor; 
In  vain  the  immortal  valor; 

In  vain  the  insurgent  life  outpoured ! 

Faltered  the  column,  spent  with  shot  and 
sword ; 

Its  bright  hope  blanched  with  sudden  pallor; 
While  Hancock's  trefoil  bloomed  in  triple  fame. 
He  chose  the  field ;  he  saved  the  second  day ; 

And,  honoring  here  his  glorious  name, 
Again  his  phalanx  held  victorious  sway. 
Meade's  line  stood  firm,  and  volley  on  volley 

roared 

Triumphant  Union,  soon  to  be  restored, 
Strong  to  defy  all  foes  and  fears  forever. 

The  Ridge   was  wreathed  with  angry  fire 

As  flames  rise  round  a  martyr's  stake; 
For  many  a  hero  on  that  pyre 

Was  offered  for  our  dear  land's  sake, 

What  time  in  heaven  the  gray  plouds  flew 

To  mingle  with  the  deathless  blue; 

While  here,  below,  the  blue  and  gray 

Melted  minglingly  away, 
Mirroring  heaven,  to  make  another  day. 


GETTYSBURG:   A   BATTLE   ODE  183 

And  we,  who  are  Americans,  we  pray 

The  splendor  of  strength   that   Gettysburg 

knew 

May  light  the  long  generations  with  glorious  ray, 
And  keep  us  undyingly  true ! 


Dear  are  the  dead  we  weep  for; 

Dear  are  the  strong  hearts  broken ! 
Proudly  their  memory  we  keep  for 

Our  help  and  hope;  a  token 
Of  sacred  thought  too  deep  for 

Words  that  leave  it  unspoken. 
All  that  we  know  of  fairest, 

All  that  we  have  of  meetest, 
Here  we  lay  down  for  the  rarest 

Doers  whose  souls  rose  fleetest 
And  in  their  homes  of  air  rest, 

Ranked  with  the  truest  and  sweetest. 
Days,  with  fiery -hearted,  bold  advances; 

Nights  in  dim  and  shadowy,  swift  retreat; 
Rains  that  rush  with  bright,  embattled  lances; 

Thunder,  booming  round  your  stirless  feet;- 
Winds  that  set  the  orchard  with  sweet  fancies 
All  abloom,  or  ripple  the  ripening  wheat; 


1 84  GETTYSBURG:  A   BATTLE   ODE 

Moonlight,  starlight,  on  your  mute  graves  falling; 

Dew,  distilled  as  tears  unbidden  flow ;  — 
Dust  of  drought  in  drifts  and  layers  crawling; 
Lulling  dreams  of  softly  whispering  snow ; 
Happy  birds,  from  leafy  coverts  calling;  — 

These  go  on,  yet  none  of  these  you  know : 
Hearing  not  our  human  voices 
Speaking  to  you  all  in  vain, 
Nor  the  psalm  of  a  land  that  rejoices, 
Ringing  from  churches  and  cities  and  foundries  a 

mighty  refrain ! 
But  we,  and  the  sun  and  the  birds,  and  the  breezes 

that  blow 

When    tempests    are    striving    and    lightnings    of 
heaven  are  spent, 
With  one  consent 
Make  unto  them 
Who  died  for  us  eternal  requiem. 

XI 

Lovely  to  look  on,  O  South, 

No  longer  stately-scornful 
But  beautiful  still  in  pride, 
Our  hearts  go  out  to  you  as  toward  a  bride! 
Garmented  soft  in  white, 


GETTYSBURG:  A   BATTLE   ODE  185 

Haughty,  and  yet  how  love-imbuing  and  tender ! 
You  stand  before  us  with  your  gently  mournful 
Memory-haunted  eyes  and  flower-like  mouth, 
Where  clinging  thoughts  —  as  bees  a-cluster 
Murmur  through  the  leafy  gloom, 

Musical  in  monotone  — 
Whisper  sadly.     Yet  a  lustre 
As  of  glowing  gold-gray  light 
Shines  upon  the  orient  bloom, 
Sweet  with  orange-blossoms,  thrown 
Round  the  jasmine-starred,  deep  night 
Crowning  with  dark  hair  your  brow. 
Ruthless,  once,  we  came  to  slay, 

And  you  met  us  then  with  hate. 
Rough  was  the  wooing  of  war :  we  won  you, 
Won  you  at  last,  though  late ! 

Dear  South,  to-day, 
As  our  country's  altar  made  us 

One  forever,  so  we  vow 
Unto  yours  our  love  to  render: 
Strength  with  strength  we  here  endow, 
And  we  make  your  honor  ours. 
Happiness  and  hope  shall  sun  you : 
All  the  wiles  that  half  betrayed  us 
Vanish  from  us  like  spent  showers. 


186  GETTYSBURG:  A   BATTLE   ODE 

XII 

Two  hostile  bullets  in  mid-air 
Together  shocked, 
And  swift  were  locked 
Forever  in  a  firm  embrace. 
Then  let  us  men  have  so  much  grace 
To  take  the  bullets'  place, 
And  learn  that  we  are  held 
By  laws  that  weld 
Our  hearts  together! 
As  once  we  battled  hand  to  hand, 
So  hand  in  hand  to-day  we  stand, 
Sworn  to  each  other, 
Brother  and  brother, 

In  storm  and  mist,  or  calm,  translucent  weather : 
And  Gettysburg's  guns,  with  their  death-giving 

roar, 

Echoed  from  ocean  to  ocean,  shall  pour 
Quickening  life  to  the  nation's  core; 

Filling  our  minds  again 
With  the  spirit  of  those  who  wrought  in  the 
Field  of  the  Flower  of  Men ! 


NOTES 

1  Bride  Brook. — The  colony  of  New  London  (now 
part  of  Connecticut)  was  founded  by  John  Winthrop, 
Jr.,  under  the  jurisdiction  of  Massachusetts.     One  of 
the  boundary  lines  was  a  stream  flowing  into   Long 
Island  Sound,  between  the  present  city  of  New  London 
and  the  Connecticut  River.     In  the  snowy  winter  of 
1646,  Jonathan  Rudd,  who  dwelt  in  the  settlement  of 
Saybrook  Fort,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Connecticut,  sent 
for  Winthrop  to  celebrate  a  marriage  between  himself 
and  a  certain  "  Mary  "  of  Saybrook,  whose  last  name 
has  been  lost.     Winthrop  performed  the  ceremony  on 
the  frozen  surface  of  the  streamlet,  the  farthest  limit  of 
his   magistracy;   and    thereupon    bestowed    the   name 
"Bride  Brook,"  which  it  still  bears. 

2  The  Bride  of  War. — Jemima  Warner,  a  Pennsyl 
vania  woman,  was  the  wife  of  one  of  Morgan's  rifle 
men.     She   marched  with  the  expedition  ;   and,  when 
her  husband  perished  of  cold  and  exhaustion,  she  took 
his  rifle  and  equipments  and  herself  carried  them  to 
Quebec,  where  she  delivered  them  to  Arnold  as  a  token 
of  her  husband's  sacrifice,  and  proof  that  he  was  not  a 
deserter. 

Colonel  Enos  of  Connecticut  abandoned  the  column 
while  it  was  struggling  through  the  Dead  River  region, 
with  his  whole  force,  the  rear-guard,  numbering  eight 
187 


1 88  NOTES 

hundred  men.  But  for  this  defection  Arnold  might 
have  triumphed  in  his  assault  on  Quebec.  It  is  a  curi 
ous  circumstance  that,  with  this  traitor  at  the  rear,  and 
with  Benedict  Arnold  at  its  head,  the  little  army  also 
counted  in  its  ranks  Aaron  Burr,  whose  treason  was  to 
ripen  after  the  war  ended. 

3  The  Sword Dham.—K\\\.?x,  the  Bedouin  poet-hero, 
was  chief  of  the  tribe  of  Ghaylib. 

4  The  Name  of  Washington. —  Read  before  the  Sons 
of  the  Revolution,  New-York,  February  22,  1887,  and 
adopted  as  the  poem  of  the  Society. 

5  Marthy   Virginia's  Hand.—  This   was    an    actual 
incident  in  the  experience  of  the  late  Colonel  (formerly 
Captain)  Albert  J.  Munroe.  of  the  Third  Rhode  Island 
Artillery,  a  gallant  officer,  gentle  and  brave  as  well  in 
peace  as  in  war. 

6  Gettysburg:  A  Battle  Ode.  —  Written  for  the  So 
ciety  of  the   Army  of  the  Potomac,  and  read  at  its 
re-union  with   Confederate  survivors  on  the   field  of 
Gettysburg,  July  3,  1888,  the  Twenty-Fifth  Anniversary 
of  the  Battle. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 


Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


27Dec'. 


JAN  Z  7  11 


MAR  21 1954  Uj 


LD  21-100m-9,'48(B399sl6)476 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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